Road to Recovery
by Wisecrack Idiots
Summary: G1, AU elements. Not all scars are superficial. And many more aren't just permanent — they're fatal. Suicide recovery story. Warnings posted inside.
1. Desperate Measures

**Title**: Road to Recovery**  
>Fandom<strong>: G1**  
>Genre<strong>: Angst/Hurt/Comfort**  
>Pairings<strong>: Canon-only**  
>Rating<strong>: M

**Warnings**: This fanfiction isn't for the faint of heart. There are a lot of controversial themes included in this story, such as attempted suicide and drug abuse, not to mention things of sensitive nature such as self-service, disturbing imagery, swearing, and violence/gore. _Read at your own risk._

**Disclaimer**: Not mine; sorry to disappoint ya.

**Summary**: After another failed espionage mission led by Prowl to a Decepticon stronghold in Kaon, the tactician is burdened by a heavy sense of guilt and despair. Deciding that the Autobots would have a better success at winning the war without him, Prowl takes that inevitable last step. This story ultimately chronicles his healing as Prowl—with the help of friends and comrades—begins to discover his own self-worth amidst the atrocities of war.

**Author's Note**: Welcome, welcome, readers, reviewers, and…er…indiscriminate others. As you all know, this is a suicide-recovery story. It is my belief that good writers can dabble in all genres, but great writers can master them. Thus, I've turned my eyes toward my newest project, a self-reflective piece of work that entails death and despair. Let me clarify that no, this story is not an outlet reflecting my current state of mind. Secondly, this fanfiction does end on an extremely positive note. I'm of the opinion that all that all great works of literature have conflicts, but not all resolves end in tragedy. We create our own "happy endings," in essence, but the path to achieving those ends is often marred by difficult obstacles. Only in overcoming can we become stronger—and prevail.

A large thank you goes to **Hearts of Eternity** and **Steelfeathers**, whose stories _Where You and I Collide_ and _Instability_ proved invaluable to me while writing my own fanfic.

Before we begin, here's a few unit conversions used in this story for time:

Klik/Astrosecond = Second, Breem = Minute, Joor = Hour, Cycle/Orn = Day, Decacycle = Week, Stellarcycle = Month, Vorn = Year

* * *

><p>Chapter One: <strong>Desperate Measures<strong>

"_Life is a journey that must be traveled no matter how bad the roads and accommodations."_

‒ Oliver Goldsmith

* * *

><p>It never should have happened.<p>

_Mission statement 01.045 retrieval: commencing…_

_Access approved. Initializing report…_

_10% output. Loading…_

_39% output. Loading…_

_60% output. Loading…_

_Download complete. Selected file: AUTOBOT DEACTIVATION RECORD. _

And yet it did.

Gazing back up at Prowl from the flickering panel was a list of names. Ten dead. Their frames dismantled, nothing more than Energon smears on the distant outskirts of Kaon, hundreds of miles away from the Autobot stronghold Iacon. For Prowl to gaze emptily at the designations was a brutal reminder of the mission he had embarked upon less than a decacycle ago. Fifteen soldiers had left for enemy territory, and only five—himself included—had returned.

As the trembling black-and-white scrolled through the obituary, images flashed through his processor. Mechs and femmes, laughing gaily as they went about their everyday lives. Trusted comrades, charging enemies head-on even under an onslaught of crumbling granite and turret fire. Lifeless corpses, Energon bleeding freely from deep slashes, vents heaving as they whispered his name with their dying breaths.

The infiltration had been nothing short of an absolute failure. After weeks of planning, training, and preparation, his faction had lost more than it had bargained for. Ten of his subordinates had perished, and he had no one to blame but himself. A violent end to the lives of young soldiers who had futures beyond this damned war. And now…this.

Stale Energon gurgled in his throat, threatening to be purged onto his desk if Prowl didn't seek out the nearest waste receptacle. Savagely the Praxian fought down the bile. Dark emotions enfolded his CPU like sinister wings, constricting his mind with a bout of rage so painful that he spasmed. Subduing a howl he could feel welling up from the depths of his spark, Prowl clenched the datapad and hurled it at the door. Combined with the force of his throw, the device shattered against his office door in a shower of metal and glass shards.

Instantly the logical component that dominated his CPU berated him for such a waste. Nothing was garnered from destroying the device, yet raging sentiments argued otherwise. Still seething, Prowl curled his fists along the edge of the desk, longing to inflict more damage, more _pain_. Where his digits clenched into the desk's frame, dents now gashed its surface. Painfully his spark hammered in its casing, pumping fluids through his hydraulics at the sudden rush of energy. At last the Praxian uttered a soft keen and slumped into his chair, doorwings shaking with the force of his emotions.

"I'm sorry…" That should have been the first warning sign, speaking aloud when there were no other 'bots in the room to address. Disregarding that fact, Prowl curled his arms around his chassis and dug his fingers painfully into the joints along his arms. That action elicited a sharp gasp of pain from the mech. Harsh ventilations wracked his frame. Prowl slammed his forehead into the desk, emitting a wretched, constricted howl as the impact caused a thin crack to mar his red chevron.

For once in his life the black-and-white Autobot could not bring himself to care about the irrationality behind such acts. Every self-inflicted pain, to Prowl, was a minor reimbursement on the behalf of the soldiers who had paid the price for his mistakes. The four Autobots who had survived on the covert operation—Arcee, Cliffjumper, Huffer, and Trailbreaker—were in medbay being repaired, and their injuries were as much his responsibility as the others' deaths had been.

Regret. Shame. Hatred. Fear.

Hate. Hate. Hate.

The emotions scalded, burned, reducing everything on the inside to ash, leaving nothing behind. Funny, how apt that wording was. He felt like nothing. He _felt_ nothing. Noiselessly Prowl heaved, his armor rattling from the broken, soundless sobs sputtered out of his vocalizer. _Something_, he keened, _anything to numb the pain_.

Medicine? No. Somehow that would only impair his judgment and fail to administer upon him the suffrage he so deserved. That, and Ratchet would never willingly forfeit drugs to him for the sheer purpose of overdose.

High-grade? Never. That was purely an indulgence that would only drown him in maudlin, half-coherent thoughts. No; what Prowl required was punishment, not some cheap escape from the destruction he had unwillingly caused.

From the floor of his office came an enticing glint. Lifting his dented face off of the desk, Prowl cautiously regarded the glass fragments littered about the room. An idea born from desperation surfaced, and unsteadily the mech rose to his feet. Despite his heavy limp sustained during the battle, Prowl managed to shuffle weakly across the room. Shards underfoot scraped into the metal of his pedes, but Prowl paid them no regard. He was no stranger to pain. In fact, he welcomed the cutting pain as he knelt to the floor in prayer-esque fashion. Tremors lapsed through his extended arm as Prowl lifted a jagged splinter off the ground. Oddly enough, the way in which the Praxian waved the shard seemed practiced, rehearsed, while the shaking in his servo bore an element of anticipation, not fatigue.

Steely resolve chased away every logical counterargument his processor was offering. Slowly the tactician regarded his reflection in the serrated glass.

Staring back at him from the shard was his own warped expression, faceplates twisted in indescribable agony.

That was all the incentive he required to begin peeling off armor plates along his left arm. Latches and hinges clicked, undoing the basic maintenance attachments that fixed Prowl's dermal plating to his exoskeleton. Black plates thudded to the ground as the officer shed his heavy armor.

When his gaze fell onto his arm he forced himself to not look away from the mangled limb.

Lining the cables and fuel pumps along his arm were over a dozen half-healed lacerations. Melted metal and partial welds showed where his frame's self-repair systems had attempted to undo the damage done. Beneath the dim lighting the dried Energon still coating the cuts sent a wild thrill of nausea through him like an aftershock. Gritting his denta, Prowl forced himself not to shiver at what he was about to do.

With the precision of a medic about to sever a wire, the black-and-white mech pressed the glass against his metal coating, exhaled sharply, and pulled.

Energon at once spurted from the ruptured line, drenching the metal and oozing down his arm. Azure droplets spattered onto the floor, staining the metal underneath. Biting his glossa to restrain a forthcoming scream, Prowl shook violently under the physical strain. Rather than deactivate the neural circuits around the damaged site, however, the SIC enhanced the sensors and flinched when he did.

Wave after wave engulfed the tactician. Had Prowl been standing, the sensations would have brought him to his knees. Instead Prowl repeated the nauseating gesture. This time he was unable to suppress a breathy gasp as more of his bodily fluids gushed from the ruptured lines.

Choked sobs rattled his entire body as a third slice joined its brethren.

"Please," rasped Prowl, "make it stop…"

However mad the deed appeared from an outside perspective, he managed to weigh his decisions against logic. Even four decacycles after he'd begun ripping up his own protoform he could still find a way to justify the action to himself. He'd made mistakes. Too many mistakes. Enough to incite him to hurt himself, to _feel_ something for the Autobots who more and more as of late were dying because of him.

Because Prowl had been overconfident in his abilities, his comrades had been reduced to less than scorched alloy. That was the first night he'd carved into his own metallic flesh. Thanks to Prowl's outdated calculations, the mines intended for Starscream's trine had engulfed three Autobot engineers in a vacuum of fire and brimstone. Four weeks later and he still remembered their screams with perfect recollection. Four weeks later and he still had the cuts to prove that the nightmare he just wished he could wake up from was real.

Next, two cycles after the accidental detonation, Prowl was informed by a returning reconnaissance team that a valuable fuel source and Energon deposit had been snatched by Megatron's forces. Several 'bots had died in the raid, and Inferno had been brought back to Iacon in order to be admitted to the ICU for roughly four days to recover from the handiwork of Ravage's claws. To worsen the matter, said Energon deposit had been one of the main lines that exported precious resources into Iacon. Losing the area forced the Autobots at Iacon and various outposts to ration extensively until an alternate site could be tapped and redistributed.

All of the aforementioned events had been a consequence of Prowl's shortsightedness. He had personally appealed to Optimus, insisting that the area was well-guarded and that troops would better serve relocated to other stations. How wrong he had been that orn when those treacherous words left his mouthplates.

Once more Prowl had barricaded himself in his quarters, locked the door behind heavy firewalls, and drained the Energon from his body. Strike two against him; several more strikes added to the arsenal on his wrist, one for each of the soldiers who had been killed in the seize.

What really tore at the tactician's spark, however, were the subsequent days leading up to his latest failure. Between overworking to try and correct the damages dealt by his own hand, a few Autobots had displayed open hostility toward him. The ever-paranoid Red Alert—whose false alarms were legendary amongst the Iaconian population—had frostily regarded Prowl during a conference. Thanks to the security officer's suspicion, he had begun to falsely assume that each tragic happenstance was, in fact, an intentional sabotage by Prowl. Mechs and femmes alike scoffed at such absurdities; Jazz even went as far as to chortle in the rec room one evening, "Don' take it personally, Prowler, Red's called at least everyone a Decepticon one time or another. Pit, he even tried t' arrest Prime one time for treason, and he's th' fraggin' commander! Just goes t' show, ya can't spell 'paranoia' without 'Red Alert.'"

No small amount of comfort could alleviate Prowl's anguish, considering that Red Alert was partially correct. All of those deaths had been his fault. All of their blood was on his hands.

Rumors and gossip were a part of life in the city; that was to be expected. When mechs and femmes discussed Red Alert's not-so-subtle theory of Prowl's defection, laughter tended to pervade those conversations. Still, those conversations eventually tended to veer into murky waters. Amusement turned to speculation. Speculation transformed into genuine concerns. And while no 'bot openly questioned the TIC's authority, their nervous whispers reached Prowl's audios.

_What happens if he makes another mistake? _

_How long until another Autobot offlines?_

_Will we lose the war?_

Another low-pitched moan left Prowl's throat as he dug the Energon-stained fragment into his circuitry. Sparks erupted from the frayed wires and broken fuel lines. Cybertronian gore coated the delicate, exposed protoform along his arm.

He couldn't associate with them. He couldn't risk walking amongst his comrades. The thought of seeing their optics darken was too much to bear for his overburdened processor. Instead Prowl concentrated on dragging the shard through the sparking circuitry, allowing the physical pain to radiate along his arm. Each deep gouge burned harshly, yet the tactician did nothing to deter from the course of action. Permitting his own suffering further—cursing his own designation in an undertone—was the only atonement.

_Live behind a façade. Keep conversations short and peers oblivious. Make certain that replies are simple, polite, devoid of emotion._

Those were the words systematically inducted into his routine four weeks ago. A mantra of sorts to keep prying eyes from seeing the truth beyond his cold mask. Prowl, by nature, was not the most social Autobot; that title belonged to Cybertronians such as Sideswipe and Bumblebee. Seclusion was a slow, patient killer, leeching him of all internal feelings until the tactician was reduced to nothing more than a hollow shell. A sparkless drone.

And didn't he deserve to suffer? Denta clenched, Prowl shakily administered his sixth cut that sent rivulets of Energon dripping onto the floor. Others looked to him as Head Tactical Advisor, and as such, expected him to keep them alive. Their trust was obviously misplaced.

"Why…" The rough exhale caused a coolant tear to trail down the sharp contours of his cheek. Hatred and self-loathing sent a heated rush of adrenaline through his systems. Why was he given the promotion to Second-in-Command when he continued making rookie mistakes? Why did his teammates have to pay the ultimate price for _his_ shortcomings?

Why were they dead when it should have been him?

Abruptly his logic center sputtered at the disturbingly calm observation. Intakes hitched in his throat as the tactician lifted his chin ever-so-slightly to regard the glass clutched in his Energon-slick palm.

There was no denying that his existence was meaningless, and wallowing in self-pity only incensed the guilt. Still and unmoving, breaths shallow, the black-and-white mech scrutinized the datapad fragment.

Why not? Faceplates twisted, Prowl rasped, "They're better off without me…"

With the Praxian in charge, his faction—under no certain delusions—wasn't advancing in its cause. Why not end it all? Why not spare his subordinates of future accidents? Why not send his already condemned spark to the Pit?

Once, he might have laughed at the absurdity of such a notion. Gods and hells, the things that went bump in the night, were the stuff of sparkling recharge stories. But as his reflection stared up at him from the depths of the shard, all he saw staring back was a monster. A killer. An executioner. And what better asylum for mechs like him but the Inferno?

He wanted to die.

He _deserved _to die.

So why not?

Flexing his fingers around the crystal, Prowl carefully brought it level to the vital cables in his neck. Already he could feel his tanks pumping fluid through his systems as a drastic last resort. Ironic, how his frame tried its best to keep his spark beating when death lay a single stroke away.

One single, precise cut, and the ache would end. All of his fellow Autobots' problems would vanish, go away, cease to exist.

Just like him.

Jagged edges pressed into the sensitive metal along the curve of his neck. Hand shaking violently, the tactician willed the subconscious trembling to desist. A single bead of Energon rolled from the tiny slit the glass's pressure had created. Shuttering his optics tightly, he prepared to sink the shard into his throat.

Prowl never realized that the door to his office had slid open until he heard someone scream.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: I thought I ought to mention that the Autobots who died are pretty much "extras." Aka, plot fodder, though I sort of guessed that you all would have surmised that by now. Well, what'cha think? Did it suck? Was it okay? Totally awesome, right? Please let me know so I know how to proceed!

**EDIT**: Thanks to LucasVN for pointing out a slip-up I made while initially writing this chapter. "Wood" indeed...


	2. Difference of Opinion

**Warnings**: Violence, gore, swearing, and further attempts at suicide.  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: Sometimes writing fanfictions is as close I'll ever come to owning _Transformers_. Maybe it's time I considered creating some original characters.  
><strong>Rating<strong>: M

**Summary**: Not everyone approves of Prowl's rash decision, and they're not going to stay quiet about it, either.

**Author's Note**: You guys are so amazing. I was overjoyed when I saw that so many people had taken a liking to this story. I have to admit, I was really scared about readers' reactions, given that this is the first time I've ever attempted a story of such a dark caliber. For those of you who gave me enthusiastic and well-meaning responses, thank you. It's a real encouragement to hear that my efforts aren't in vain. Unfortunately, updates won't be routine, but I will never abandon this story. I'll see it through from start to finish, no doubt about it, so rest assured that there's plenty to come. A round of shout-outs to **Casting Moonlight**, **Transfan**, **TsuMei**, **Birdiebot**, **Shizuka Taiyou**, and** NineCrow** for your lovely and constructive feedback.

I'd like to bring to your attention an interesting tidbit: at the beginning of each chapter I intend to include famous quotes about roads. Right now I have about, oh, I don't know, eight quotes, but if anyone stumbles across or thinks of good ones, I'd love to hear 'em. They're part of the fuel for this story. Poetry, quotes from a book, TV or video game expressions—it's all fair game. Thanks in advance for the help, if any of you are so inclined.

Heads up: While all of the characters here are firmly G1, a few of their designs were tweaked. Ironhide sports a black exterior, while Ratchet retains yellow armor. That's all of the changes I can think of…for now. The only reason I made these adjustments was because I prefer the two of them with their _Movieverse_ coloring rather than their traditional red and red-white appearances. So sue me.

* * *

><p>Chapter Two: <strong>Difference of Opinion<strong>

"_So many roads. So many detours. So many choices. So many mistakes."_

‒ Sarah Jessica Parker

* * *

><p>Grunting, the yellow medic shied away from a sudden and increasing pressure on his shoulder plating. Hands insistently clutched at the rotator discs and shook, creating a mechanical series of <em>clanks<em> as the gears beneath his armor protested loudly.

For Ratchet, rest came once in a blue moon. Due to his constantly required presence in medbay, the spitfire medic rarely managed to appreciate a deep and uninterrupted recharge. Of course, he never held his apprentices to such rigorous standards and made a habit of shooing First Aid and Swoop in the direction of their quarters whenever he caught them yawning.

This week alone had been rather trying, however, so when he_ did_ finally manage to capture some much-needed downtime, being shaken awake by an intruder wasn't met with much appreciation.

The medic lashed out to ensnare the trespasser's wrist in a viselike grasp. Optics cycled online, configurations lit up along his sensor grid, and within the span of an astrosecond Ratchet found his gaze focusing on Bluestreak.

Aborted whirs signaled that his systems were cycling down out of the impulse-driven retaliation. Under his quelling look, Bluestreak went absolutely still. Unfortunately, the uncharacteristic pause was instantly swept away in a tidal wave of chatter:

"Thank Primus you onlined—not that you wouldn't have onlined, of course, because that's just plain stupid—but if you hadn't, I would've had to get First Aid and 'Jack to make sure you didn't glitch up while you slept, because, y'know, mechs getting on in age tend to have more maintenance-related malfunctions. Ironhide always complains about his joints and hinges locking up and making him stiff. That must really slagging suck, but you being a medic and all, I'm sure you could easily whip up a remedy for age-related glitches such as fluid backup and—"

"Bluestreak," Ratchet growled, the word interlaced with his growing impatience. Curtly he unclenched his fingers around the gray Autobot's arm and began to steadily prop his chassis off the berth. "What are you doing awake? I know for fact your sorry afterburner wasn't on the roster for the graveyard shift." Consulting his internal chronometer deemed the hour to be exceedingly late. _Great_. _More precious recharge wasted_. It only annoyed him more that Bluestreak dared suggest that he had the Cybertronian equivalent of constipation.

Unflattering as Bluestreak's query was, it only justified in Ratchet's mind that the medic had every right to be foul-tempered. In the sixteenth of a second another indignant thought made itself at home in his processor: "How did you even get the access code to my room?"

Momentarily Bluestreak teetered on the verge of speech, uncertain as to which question he should answer first. Given the medic's scorching look, Bluestreak wisely concluded that he had three seconds to live if he didn't offer some sort of explanation.

Fidgeting before the yellow Autobot's berth, the sniper wrung his digits together almost painfully and jabbered, "Well, uh, a few weeks ago Sunny and Sides promised to teach me how to hack security locks if I helped them settle a debt with Smokescreen that involved a bet and some high-grade from—"

The medic planted a servo firmly over the gray mech's mouthplates, indicating Bluestreak had said too much. What a shocker. It was on orns like this Ratchet was sincerely grateful that Cybertronians didn't have breathing commitments. Otherwise, he might have lived in perpetual fear of Bluestreak talking himself into a coma. Primus, the kid never shut up.

Exhaling heavily to dispel some of the stress gathered in his CPU, the medic snapped, "Tell those two hellions that while those skills are valuable, they are to be practiced on _Decepticon_ security, _not my personal quarters_. Now"—settling along the edge of his berth, Ratchet watched Bluestreak carefully—"what is so important that it couldn't wake until tomorrow?"

The moment those words ghosted past his lips, Ratchet realized something was wrong. First and foremost, Bluestreak's inflection was off. Normally the social sniper spoke at a constant, even pace—ceaseless, but even. Now his speech was bordering mach speeds, a record for him considering that his nuance could have shamed even Blurr. Scanners hardwired into his neural coding were pumping out streams of data on the mech's statistics. His spark resonance was off kilter, his electromagnetic field sporadic and fluxing too wildly to be normal: a telltale symptom of stress.

Hissing out a short curse, the medic nudged Bluestreak aside and agilely leapt to his pedes. He didn't even give the sniper a chance to respond. The last vestiges of sleep were now long forgotten. "What happened?"

At once the gray Praxian's audials heightened in a petrified trill. "It's P-Prowl! I—I don't know what was happening, but I stopped by his office to deliver a report from Arcee! It was a summary on that mission to Kaon yester—"

"Damn it, Blue, this is no time for your obsessive-compulsive prattle!" Already the lithe medic had crossed the threshold of his quarters, rapidly keying in the password for his lock before the door slid open. Without warning Ratchet stepped into the faintly-illuminated hallway and glowered at Bluestreak. Cautiously the younger 'bot bounded after Ratchet, puffed out a quick breath, and swerved left. Pursuing their conversation, Ratchet ground out, "Give me an answer in less than ten words."

"I'm sorry!" Because Ratchet's strides were driven by apprehension, Bluestreak was required to double his pace to keep up with the bright yellow medic. "Like I said, I went to give him the reports and found his door locked. So I…So I overrode the encryption files and…" Fear shadowed the normally cheerful face.

That Bluestreak, of all mechs, was speechless caused Ratchet's spark beat all the faster. Briefly he consulted his public communications channel and was bombarded by an onslaught of airwaves. Messages relayed too quickly, or signals so shocked that the emotional overload jammed the frequency. Either way, there was no hope in gleaning anything intelligible from the traffic jam.

Instead Ratchet swung his line of sight back to his companion and fixed the young sniper with a piercing look. "Of all the times to be at a loss for words and you had to pick _now_?" he snarled.

Before the doorwinger could formulate another long-winded monologue, their restless pedes carried them to a large corridor crowded with Autobots. Tension permeated the vicinity, accompanied by panicked whispers and heightened screams. Bodily Ratchet shoved Tracks and Hound aside, sparing a nanoklik to register surprise at their dumbstruck appearances. The eternally-haughty Tracks didn't even balk at the rough treatment.

Perhaps that uncharacteristic behavior could be attributed to the nightmarish scene unfolding before his optics.

Jet-black armor at the edge of his periphery sensors identified Ironhide as the mech hunched against the wall. Ruefully the weapons specialist rubbed at his mandible, jaw clenched and sapphire Energon magnificently contrasting against his ebony paint. Statistical data rimmed along his HUD informed Ratchet that the veteran was incapacitated.

At the heart of this crude ring were Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, the two twins wrestling in vain against the writhing shape beneath their combined weight. Bucking wildly, at the frontliners' mercy, was Prowl. Fluids coursing through Ratchet's piping froze. Every feral thrash of Prowl's limbs caused fresh Energon to slicken the metallic floor. Puddles—no, _pools_—of the life-giving fuel coated the hallway.

It was a grisly masterpiece only the brushstrokes of Unicron could ever hope to paint.

Heavy hands clamped down on his arm and jolted Ratchet out of his trance-like state.

"Bluestreak found Prowl on the floor surrounded by his own Energon," informed Bumblebee in a voice nothing short of terrorized. The vibrant yellow minibot jerked toward Silverbolt and Air Raid, both of whom backtracked down the hallway at Bumblebee's unspoken request. "Blue said that he had taken glass from a broken datapad and was about to…to slit his own throat with it."

"Alert Hoist and First Aid at once. Have them begin preparing medbay. Go!" he spat at the scout when Bumblebee seemed reluctant to abandon the pandemonium. Only for a fraction did he hesitate; then, Bumblebee offered a hasty nod and departed.

Rising from epicenter was another mournful howl, followed by a vexed shout. During the brief transaction between himself and the scout, Prowl had managed to dislodge Sideswipe. A remarkable feat, given that the twins were better hand-to-hand fighters than the tactician. A frenzied scramble ensued in which the shuddering and sobbing Praxian blindly grabbed at Sideswipe's short single-edged sword fastened at his waist. Sensing the attempt mere kliks before Prowl could grab the hilt, Sideswipe rolled toward the other mech, crushing him beneath his frame.

"Do not harm Prowl!" ordered Ratchet tightly. Of their own accord his servos dipped into a subspace pocket and withdrew a hypodermic needle. Emerald green serum swished inside the glass compartment. "He only has intentions in wounding himself!"

"Oh, yeah?" groaned Ironhide. "Tell that to my jaw! He dislocated it!"

Ignoring the black mech's complaints, the CMO realigned his gaze with the scuffle taking place. Again Sunstreaker had sidled up to his brother's side and pinned Prowl to the floor by his doorwings. Touching the over-sensitized panels only resulted in the tactician screeching.

Squarely meeting his officer optic-to-optic, Sunstreaker panted, "Stop!"

"Please," Sideswipe begged. Vibrations rattled along his torso as Prowl only offered another desperate volley of punches and kicks. Regretfully but firmly the Energon-smeared soldier drew an arm back. Whirs and clicks reverberated from his arm as it reconfigured into a pile driver. "Don't make me do it, Prowl!"

Only a guttural wail answered him. The psychotic break was lending its own deviant strength to Prowl, offering him an outlet. An escape route. A break for freedom. Fingers wandered over Sunstreaker's broad chest while his knee tensed. In a ricochet motion Prowl rammed the unforgiving metal into the golden twin's pelvic region. Recoiling from the blow, Sunstreaker was partially flung backward, forced to stumble. Sense of equilibrium already distorted, it didn't help when the berserker slid into a congealed pool of Prowl's Energon. Amidst the deafening thunder from Sunstreaker's fall, Prowl stole in a jab to Sideswipe's optics. It was an underhanded move meant to stun the red mech. As expected, it played its part well: as Sideswipe's grip slackened, his Praxian opponent unsheathed the tempered blade, kicked his adversary away with a polished blow, and staggered upright.

Onlookers could only begin to hopelessly call out his designation. Undeterred and unfeeling to his comrades' outcries, Prowl waved the quicksilver sword outward and clenched the grip. Teasingly the refined edge hovered over his spark chamber, caressing the external nodes. A prelude to true catharsis shrouded the tactician, an ethereal buzz to the high he was experiencing. Cliché as his posture was, it felt so _right_ to be about to plunge the sword through his spark.

Just as several faceless Autobots surged forward to stop him, Prowl's hold tightened, and he thrust.

Something curious happened. The dagger-like weapon only managed to sink its malicious tip into the outermost circuitry. Prowl remained frozen in the incomplete _coup de grâce_, stalled for a klik of time before the tactician's icy blue lenses spiraled wide in shock. Not a single 'bot stirred when the black-and-white mech's optics rolled back into his helm, legs giving away beneath him as the bleeding tactician crumpled to the floor.

The sword clattered to the ground beside him.

Breathing hard and looming over Prowl's unconscious form was Ratchet. Held between the medic's dexterous fingers was an empty syringe, a bead of emerald sedative rolling off the needle.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: For those of you who might have quirked an eyebrow and scoffed, "There's no way everyone would just stand around and watch!" allow me to explain.

Watching someone attempt to commit suicide is traumatizing. Twice I've found myself in two similar scenarios in which I watched a family member attempt to end his life. I speak from firsthand experience when I say that the experience can paralyze you. Individuals react differently in this ituation. I, personally, was so numbed by my emotions that I couldn't move until an order was barked at me to dial 911. Make no mistake that their reactions were believable; until you've been there—which I pray none of you will ever be, bystander or instigator—you cannot fathom how easy it is to just stand and watch.

On a much happier note, I love Bluestreak. He's just so damn adorable. And I think I have a thing for cranky medics, because Ratchet is _hot_. I'm running my theory against various other medics, such as Gregory House from _House_, and Yellowfang from _Warriors. _I idolize them_._

Go figure.


	3. Two Sides to the Conflict

**Warnings**: Swearing, ideological topics.  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: Copyrights, thy name is jerkface.  
><strong>Rating<strong>: M

**Summary**: As an unconscious Prowl is rushed into the medbay his comrades begin to discuss the events that occurred, and more importantly, why.

**Author's Note**: Sorry about the excessive length. Hopefully it's worth it.

My thanks to **Richard'sQueen aka LGFS**, **Shizuka Taiyou**,** Fianna9**, and **Jacqueline Walker**. Reviews are sincerely appreciated, so the more, the merrier!

* * *

><p>Chapter Three: <strong>Two Sides to the Conflict<strong>

"_All my years to this moment.  
>All my roads to this wall.<br>All my words to this silence.  
>All my pride to this fall<em>."

‒ Catherine Fisher, _Incarceron_ (_Songs of Sapphique_)

* * *

><p>Optimus Prime strode down the lengthy corridor, Wheeljack bounding at his side. Gray soot marred the red and green paint along the inventor's chassis, blending the colors against the overall silver layout of his frame. It had been at the scientist's invitation that the commander had visited Wheeljack's lab to witness the unveiling of his newest project. (When Optimus had notified Ironhide of his intentions several hours ago, the weapons specialist had merely rolled his optics and harrumphed: "Should I go ahead and get a repair booth reserved for him now, or later?")<p>

Despite Wheeljack's well-meaning intentions, there was no denying the truth in Ironhide's words, all things considered. The thick layer of ash coating the inventor's armor was a testimony to how often his devices literally and figuratively backfired. In spite of his growing list of failed projects, Wheeljack had endeared himself to the Autobots through his eccentric charms and fondness of "mixing highly potent chemicals together just to see what happens," as Hoist had called it after one rather nasty explosion.

In fact, Wheeljack's status for blowing things up was so legendary that those familiar with his antics had developed a sixth sense of knowing when to duck.

Hence why Optimus didn't share his grimy appearance. It seemed that quick battle reflexes had more purposes than dodging missiles.

If only the explosion this evening had been the worst of Optimus' troubles.

Following the post-Apocalyptic firestorm that buried part of the lab in a pile of rubble, Silverbolt had picked his way through the demolition zone, his underling Air Raid in tow. The normally brash and outgoing Aerialbot had been subdued, Silverbolt even more so. Commander and soldier alike had stiffly relayed the events that had transpired in five quick words, enough to deliver the severity of the situation. Not waiting for further explanation, Optimus had maneuvered around them and dashed out of Wheeljack's bay with said inventor in tow.

"_Prowl tried to kill himself_."

Even in his head, the words stung with all the sharpness of a rusty dagger.

An approaching commotion heading their way abruptly jolted Optimus out of his thoughts.

At the head of the procession was Ratchet, trademark scowl fixed firmly. A new, frenzied panic darkened the medic's optics as he ushered along a portable medbay stretcher. The device was the result of one of Wheeljack's experiments that _didn't _self-destruct. A berth of sorts that lacked wheels, it could rove freely about its environment relying on electromagnetic pulsations constantly produced by a battery pack and copper wires that supplied an endless feedback loop. The rest of the explanation involved mathematical equations, quantum mechanics, radiant energy, and too much slagging free time required to comprehend the previously-mentioned components. Lacking both the time and the patience to humor Wheeljack's lecture, Optimus had taken the appropriate course of action and substituted himself for the closest 'bot at hand—Blaster—to be left to Wheeljack's tender mercies.

Those reminisces were shattered as the stretcher neared. The frame rested atop the silvery metallic-blue surface was Prowl's, and only was the tactician distinguishable by his doorwings and red chevron. Every surface area of his spasmodically twitching body was transfigured by Energon. Spatters of the azure fluid rendered his normally black-and-white paintjob beyond recognizable. Armor plating along the Praxian's left arm was removed, and it was impossible to believe that the sparking tangle of wires along his exoskeleton had once been a functioning limb. Arcs of electricity jumped between the severed wires and cables.

Shocked stupid by the sight, Optimus stopped. Next to him the inventor had backed against the hallway's wall, mouthplates gaping yet intelligible sounds refusing to leave his vocalizer.

By way of greeting him, Ratchet snapped, "Either move your aft, or I'll move it for you!"

Deciding that he liked Option One better, Optimus shifted, giving the grizzled medic room to pass. Only then did it come to the Prime's attention that several other Autobots loped behind him.

Jazz was the closest to Ratchet, nearly stepping on the medic's heel with each footfall. While his optics were guarded by the crystalline visor spanning his face, the saboteur's chaotic EM field was evidence enough to how he felt.

Supported between the twins was Ironhide. Globules of fresh Energon dribbled down the weapons specialist's chin as he used Sideswipe and Sunstreaker as a crutch. Neither warrior complained at having to support the trigger-happy mech between them. Although Sunstreaker's twitching upper lip gave away his immense dislike of having his pristine paint being bled upon.

Behind the threesome trailed Bluestreak, farthest from Prowl and with a miserable expression rooted to his faceplates. Seeing the sharpshooter so forlorn disturbed Optimus. Concern for the talkative mech welled up in his spark, but more pressing matters were taking precedence. Already the red-and-blue Cybertronian was falling in step alongside Ratchet, matching the medic gait for gait. Without even registering it Wheeljack had synchronized with the assorted mechs. He trailed at the back, an arm slung over Bluestreak's shoulders, his chirps too soft to decipher as he pressed his face close to the sniper's.

Almost out of morbid fascination Optimus regarded Prowl's supine form. The relentless surge of Energon from his wrist and various smaller cuts was staining the stretcher and rapidly dripping down its sides.

"Condition?" demanded Optimus, not trusting his vocals to utter more than one word at a time.

"Bad," Ratchet growled. Never once did his piercing blue optics stray from the tactician as he steered the levitating stretcher down the corridor.

"Elaborate, please."

"I've only run preliminary scans on him and I can tell you right now, the damage is severe," Ratchet answered darkly. "Torn wires, broken Energon lines, entire subroutines corrupted externally and internally—that's not even the worst of it. Couldn't even perform rudimentary repairs on him because the fragger had his sensor grid turned up so high that one touch nearly short-circuited his neural net. If Prowl lives through this, he'll be a medical miracle for not bleeding to death."

"If—?" squeaked Bluestreak somewhere from behind, kliks later hushed.

While the report was professional in nature, deeper, sparkfelt anxiety twined the medic's too-tense voice. The approaching visual of medbay saved Optimus from having to reply to that, and not just because he didn't know how. It felt as if a sandblaster had been administered to his audio circuitry, rendering the vocalizer useless.

Waiting outside the sliding doors was Hoist. The dark green mech furrowed his optic ridge and frowned, but made no comment other than, "Aid's got the ICU prepped and sterilized."

Nodding his thanks, Ratchet angled the gore-covered stretcher toward the open-paneled doors before addressing Optimus: "Please remain outside the medbay until Prowl is stabilized." Turning to Ironhide, the dusky-yellow medic informed him curtly, "Since your injuries are not life-threatening, I will deal with them once I have finished here first."

Coldly the black mech regarded him. On either flank the twins tensed, expecting some form of quarrel. After a klik Ironhide conceded: "Got it."

Vorns of having personally known the massive warrior gave rise to suspicion, something that Optimus could not ignore. Discreetly he lowered his battle mask—having neglected to remove it since his visit to Wheeljack's lab—and scrutinized his friend through narrowed optics. Whatever was corroding at Ironhide's spark, it certainly wasn't forced to take a backseat. When Ironhide was mad, he made certain that the entire base knew about it—normally by way of cursing and shooting things with his cannons.

Reality shook Optimus out of his observation in the form of Jazz pleading with Hoist. While Ratchet had already entered the medbay with his burden, Hoist had lingered long enough to deter Jazz from charging after.

"C'mon, Hoist, my main mech"—the black-and-white spy was desperately trying to peer behind the medic's broad chassis—"please, ya gotta let me make sure that he's gonna make it! Ya just can't leave me waitin' out here, not knowin' if—"

"I'm sorry, Jazz." Traces of the medic's benign personality briefly lit his faceplates. Seconds later that furrowed, heavyhearted look returned. The myrtle-colored Autobot rested a servo on the saboteur's chestplates and gently pushed him away. "Not this time."

Medbay doors slid firmly shut, blocking the group's view of its interior. Smooth, well-oiled locks clicked into place, following by a hum of machinery from the panels that indicated an encrypted security code being set into place.

With a desperate howl Jazz flung himself at the solid barrier, hammering on the panels with clenched fists. "No! You can't do this t' me, Hoist! You can't leave me out here when Prowl could be dyin'!"

At the last two syllables, a constricted whimper welled up Bluestreak.

Both Optimus' CPU and common sense wisely predicted that the saboteur was creating an unnecessary scene. Cautiously the Prime approached Jazz, careful to not hurt him as he tenderly tugged at his black shoulders and pulled Jazz away.

Complying wasn't so much a conscious choice as it was Jazz's struggles giving way to exhaustion. Fatigue weighed down the saboteur, rendering him limp in Optimus' arms. Enfolded in the Prime's embrace, the visored mech could do little more than protest with disjointed garbles. Gradually those protests faded to static, a silence that was only interrupted by Bluestreak's whimpering and Ironhide's ill-tempered growls.

"Jazz," Optimus rumbled as he ducked his helm closer to the saboteur's. "If I release you, will you not attempt to break down the door?"

Shivers lapsed through the tense black-and-white frame. "Yeah," rasped Jazz, vocalizer clicking nearly to the point of resetting. "I…I promise. Jus'…jus'…"

Unable to finish his thought, the saboteur shuddered deeply and bent his helm in defeat. Reluctantly the Prime unwrapped his broad arms from around Jazz's hunched shoulders. At the loss of contact, abruptly the black-and-white Autobot slumped to the floor with a defeated sound at the back of his throat. Helpless to ease the saboteur's pain, Optimus knelt beside him, facing the medbay doors, and rested a servo on Jazz's shoulder. "He'll live, Jazz," the Prime assured him gently.

Not even bothering to turn toward his commanding officer, he whispered hoarsely, "That's not what I'm afraid of."

"Slag it," came a curse from behind. "Watch where you step, you idiot!"

Oh, Optimus knew better that to turn and look, but curiosity and his duty as CO couldn't stop the Prime from rotating. Perched atop Sunstreaker's shoulders was none other than his twin, limbs shaking as he tried to balance. While the golden warrior had his faceplates turned toward the hallway, Sideswipe busied himself with fiddling at a security camera embedded into the wall. Wires stretched between the device and the wall it was connected it to, hastily played with by the red warrior's clever fingers.

Ironhide watched but gave no inclination to interfere. Either oblivious or unconcerned, Wheeljack had seated himself on a nearby bench usually reserved for mechs waiting to enter Ratchet's domain. Bluestreak was cuddled against the inventor's frame. The reassuring pressure of Wheeljack's hand petting the sniper's helm resulted in a light cloud of ash floating around them.

Apparently none of the "responsible adults" present didn't bother to ask about the twins'…peculiar antics. Venting an exasperated sigh, Optimus rose, however reluctantly so. Jazz required comfort, and the Prime was hesitant to abandon him in order to chastise Sunstreaker and Sideswipe for such unnecessary behavior.

Upon loudly clearing his vents the ruby and golden Autobots stiffened like glitch mice. Painfully so, Sideswipe's wobbling frame adjusted slightly to regard a none-too-pleased Prime, whose frowning faceplates spoke volumes of his dwindling patience. Sheepishness flitted over the contours of Sideswipe's face. Calm indifference shadowed the yellow berserker's faceplates.

"These last three decacycles have been extremely harrowing for all involved. I would have thought," Optimus intoned quietly, "given the gravity of the situation"—here both brothers flinched—"that the pair of you could have found enough self-restraint to refrain long enough—"

"It's not what you think!" Sideswipe interrupted. Somehow it was extremely difficult to take the red frontliner seriously, considering how he was still atop his twin's shoulders with a bundle of wires clutched in either servo. Beneath him Sunstreaker merely grunted, a noncommittal noise that could have either been discomfort or agreement. Shifting to better distribute his weight, Sideswipe insisted, "I was…er…practicing."

"Oh?" Narrowing his blue optics ever so slightly, the Prime inquired, "And what, pray tell, were you 'practicing'?"

"Hacking security feeds for live visuals," grunted Sunstreaker. It was reassuring to know that when confronted with reprimanding, at least one of the siblings had the common sense to fess up.

"You little whelps weren't satisfied with raiding Mirage's quarters and looting from him?" Ironhide exclaimed indignantly. Finally the black mech had drawn himself out of his self-absorbed thoughts.

An optic-roll from Sideswipe dismissed the accusation. "That was business. Besides, the aft had it coming," the red mech explained without a trace of guilt. Optimus revved in aggravation but made no inquiry as to what possessions were stolen from the spy. That was an issue to be resolved later. "What we were doing"—shaking precariously, Sideswipe attempted to focus on the monitor's wiring again—"was…well…intercepting the ICU's livestream footage."

"We wanted to watch the surgery," the golden Autobot elaborated, and there was no mistaking the flash of worry in Sunstreaker's optics.

Shoulders stiffening, the towering Prime rumbled, "Return the camera to its original spot and climb down. Your actions will only upset Red Aler—"

_Optimus Prime, sir!_

Speak of the mech.

Normally the Autobot commander wasn't one to be called superstitious, but the Security Director's uncanny timing almost brought the word "jinx" to mind. Sighing, Optimus locked onto the incoming airwave and responded with every last scrap of patience he had. Sadly, it wasn't enough. _What seems to be the problem, Red Alert?_

Exasperation raged across the communiqué, so heartfelt that it was almost palpable_. Sideswipe is disabling one of my security cameras! I've said it before, but no, no one would listen to poor old Red Alert when he desperately tried to get his commanders to see the truth! _

Another heavy vent escaped his mouthplates. _Red Alert—_

_But there's no denying it this time_, the red-and-white mech austerely continued as if Optimus hadn't spoken. _Not when that filthy turncoat and his brother are happily fraying the circuitry in the only failsafe defense protocol this base has!_ Said defectors, at the moment, were disentangling themselves and returning the camera back to its proper location, and none too quietly at that. Their colorful exchange of insults went uncommented on by the other four mechs present. Ironhide was brooding, his sunken and scarred features fixated on the entrance to medical. Wheeljack continued to hug Bluestreak to his flank, while the listless saboteur had yet to rise from his crouch before the locked doors.

Another stab was made at intercepting Red Alert's outburst: _I have just ordered them to cease and desist—_

_At the last officers' meeting you out-rightly denied the possibility of Decepticon infiltration, and now, when I have proof to back my claims, you're letting it slip between your fingers_, the Security Director cut across. Amazing, really, how Red Alert could seemingly talk forever.

Grinding his denta together, Optimus slammed a servo into a nearby wall, knowing that with the camera reinstalled Red Alert could see the action from his monitor. At the abrupt movement Jazz sprung to his feet in a startled hop, his helm swinging wildly from side to side. "Now is not the time for your unfounded accusations!" Optimus chastised. Realizing he'd ground out the words aloud, the red-and-blue CO hastened back to his private comm. line. _I have a crisis to currently deal with, and my patience is wearing thin. You would do well to save your allegations for later. Return to your post; I will reprimand the twins as I see fit. Understood?_

For half a klik Optimus waited, testing Red Alert's ability to shove aside his paranoia and submit to authority. At last a crackling, unhappy burst of static reached his audios. _Very well. I will see to it that the rest of the night passes…without event_.

_Good_, the red-and-blue Cybertronian rumbled. At that the Prime terminated the link and swung his crystalline-blue optics toward the now-slouched postures of the twins. Both brothers were suddenly fascinated by their pedes and staring at them fixedly. The corners of Optimus' mouth twitched briefly upward, a ghost of a smile. It always amused him how such battle-hardened soldiers could be reduced to a pair of guilty sparklings under the threat of a direct scolding. Normally discipline fell on Prowl's shoulders. To have Optimus take over that mantle reminded the red and yellow frontliners that there was a higher power, and it had a name that _wasn't_ "cold-sparked fragger."

Coolly he regarded Sunstreaker and Sideswipe with the full knowledge that sometimes a glare was more effective than a lecture. Neither twin stirred for several breems until the taller Autobot sighed. "Tomorrow you will return whatever it is you stole from Mirage to his quarters, along with an apology. Next, I would strongly advise from tapping into live video feed. It is unbecoming of a soldier, and it creates a tedious amount of paperwork. Believe me when I tell you that I would lose no recharge over assigning you both to deskwork to deal with any infiltration reports that Red Alert is tempted to fill out."

Simultaneously the twins flinched. When Red Alert panicked, there was never a shortage of security breaches, lockdowns, and "safety violation forms." The surplus of work that the Security Director generated when he overreacted was often heard complained about at length by commanding officers; aka, those who had to painstakingly go over every report individually before it could be cleared as a false alarm.

Seeing their expressions fall assured Optimus that the message had sunk in, and would be obeyed (for the time being, anyway). Softly, he tacked on, "You know, there _are_ other ways to oversee the surgery besides intercepting the security mainframe."

Piqued by the odd remark, Sideswipe canted his helm and blinked owlishly at the Prime. "How? By crawling through the vents? No, thanks. The last time we tried that Sunny here had a fit 'cause he got dirt and scratches on his darlin' paintjob."

Servos at the golden warrior's side clenched into fists. "Mute it," Sunstreaker snarled. "And don't call me 'Sunny.'"

Sideswipe spared his sibling a warning lookk. Much as their love-hate relationship entailed the occasional fistfight, evidently neither wanted to pass up whatever Optimus was about to say.

When Optimus slowly resumed speaking out of the corner of his peripheral vision he saw Jazz and Bluestreak tense. With a heavy intake the red-and-blue mech murmured, "If you truly wish to watch, then follow me." Much as he knew Ratchet would throw a tantrum at his invitation, Optimus figured it would be worse to see his comrades writhe under the suspense. "I have clearance to oversee the ICU from the surveillance deck."

Suppressive silence greeted his offer. For several kliks none of the present Autobots knew how to respond. Jazz's visor darkened to a flinty, sapphire sheen that was too shadowed to interpret. Bluestreak gaped, jaws parted, while the panels of Wheeljack's helm fins couldn't decide between yellow and red. Black splashed between the two spectrums, staining the other emotions with his anxiety. Neither twin stirred, too stunned to know whether their leader was yanking their chain or not.

From his corner Ironhide remained unmoving, minus the deepening of his growls.

When none of the assembled mechs moved, Optimus' voice took on a more urgent inflection. "If we're going, then I suggest we depart at once." Turning on his heel, the massive Cybertronian strode down the hallway. Seconds after he began moving the ring of multiple pedes echoed his. The spark resonances on his scanner showed Jazz almost directly against his backside. Hot, shaky gusts fluttered over his spinal plates from his and the saboteur's close proximity. Evidently he sought reassurance and comfort, thus clinging desperately to Optimus' personal magnetic fields.

Side-by-side several feet behind were the twins, marching in apprehensive quiet. What was remarkable about them, like all twins, was their spark resonance. At creation their sparks had halved into essentially two different frames with a piece of the same puzzle. Their signatures, when together, only registered as a single being. It was the erratic synchronization of their spark that betrayed their presence.

Wheeljack's spark was a brightly pulsing energy signature that maintained a fairly stable wavelength. It was calm and curious, expanding its parameter to register and track any ambient data it strayed across. Such was the inventor's nature that Wheeljack probably didn't pay attention to the idiosyncrasy, only sifted through the figures as his sensors and spark relayed it to his CPU.

On the edge of his magnetic fields Bluestreak's signature appeared as a vortex—frenzied, chaotic, wild. Every electromagnetic pulse sent a ripple of energy spanning outward from its epicenter. Beside the sniper's spark signature, his presence was given away by his raspy ventilations and the rattle of his gray armor. Bluestreak was panicking, and for once, his talking couldn't offer him the protective barriers he normally hid behind.

Ironhide, Optimus registered immediately, wasn't present. No doubt the scarred weapons specialist was lurking outside of medical where they had left him. Nagging worry pinched at his circuitry, an internal warning that was more instinct-driven than a response registered by his processor. Nonetheless Optimus shunted aside his forebodings. Sooner or later the mech would learn what thoughts were taking precedence over Ironhide's mind; better to let the veteran meditate on whatever was bothering him before confronting his friend.

None of them, Prime reflected grimly, knew what to do. The Pit, none of them had expected such drastic behaviors, and from Prowl of all mechs. Death was a given: this was war they were engaged in, and every orn was a struggle to not slip into the ether, be it on the battlefield, in the medbay, or in the sprawling stronghold of Iacon.

_But… _

Optimus hesitated in his line of thought as he palmed a door panel. The lit sensor flashed briefly, a thin line scanning over contours and nodes before confirming his identification. With a steamy hiss the thick walls retracted, sliding apart to reveal an authorized elevator shaft. Not a word was passed amongst the ragtag group as they shuffled into the barely spacious box. Creaks resounded from the doors as they scrolled shut. With his spinal struts to the back wall, Optimus was granted a momentary visual of his comrades.

All too soon the elevator shaft jarred to a halt, doors retracting into the wall to reveal a fairly spacious deck. Three of the walls were sturdy titanium, reinforced with a silver polish to brighten the enclosed space. Across the room from where Optimus had emerged was an extended glass window. No sooner had the red-blue Autobot stepped aside that Jazz darted forward, the twins pursuing him. Waiting for Wheeljack to shepherd Bluestreak along, Optimus spared the two mechs a half-smile. Too quick to be completely reassuring, and too faint to offer any real solace.

Like a single entity the trio pressed up behind the frontliners and saboteur to peer beyond the transparent window.

Twenty feet below was an almost blisteringly-white ICU subsection. Lights overhead had been adjusted to regulate both temperature and brightness, giving the bleached room a foreboding feel. At the heart of the operation was a single berth, with Ratchet pressed over it to the point of obscuring their view. Not five feet away Hoist was consulting a large monitor. Data, vitals, and statistics rolled across the various screens. Due to the soundproof make of the window, Optimus knew they wouldn't be able to hear anything said. Not that the present Autobots were dependent on noise for information; the surgery spread out before their optics sufficed in the most menacing of ways.

Red and white armor bounded to Ratchet's side. First Aid's mouthplates moved with the speed of gunfire as the Protectobot passed several devices into Ratchet's arms: laser scalpels, drills, spare gears and wires, solder, a welding torch, wire cutters, a defibrillator… The list went on and on. Jerking his helm in acknowledgement, the yellow medic deposited the medical equipment on a small cart to his right before pulling back. During his rummaging Prowl's form was momentarily exposed.

The black-and-white tactician had a majority of his dermal plating removed sans his pelvic region, legs, and pedes. A sturdy brace locked his helm in place. Offline, the Praxian's optics were lightless, blank lenses that gazed skyward without any trace of recognition. Now that Optimus had the chance to overlook his SIC more thoroughly, the red-and-blue mech felt a thrill of revulsion churn through his tanks. Along Prowl's chevron was a splintered crack. Where black metal had layered his left arm was the tactician's bare protoform. Well, no, not really bare—dozens of slash marks scarred the once-even surface. The worst of the lacerations were deep gouges, opened wide enough to reveal a layer of shredded wires and leaking Energon lines. Twice he'd seen the tactician's handiwork, but the detailed look-over now seemed to worsen the damage.

Before Optimus could force himself to take in more of the mangled sight, Ratchet quickly moved forward to hover over Prowl. His apprentice worked directly across the medical berth, a whirring drill held in his servos as the Protectobot directed it over the chevron. Where drill bit and chevron met sparks erupted.

For the next hour Optimus remained locked in place. He wanted to help. Yet he wanted to hide. Actually, he wasn't sure what he wanted anymore. Prime or not, the sliver of defenselessness he felt weighed heavily in the CO's processor. Self-pity was a paltry emotion for an officer to have, yet inwardly Optimus cringed and tried to bury the sentiment. No point lingering in the realm of _what if_s when his duty now was to set an example.

Alongside him his companions remained more or less stock-still, save for when Jazz would begin to pace or Sideswipe would grasp Bluestreak's hand and squeeze it.

Only once Hoist had whirled around, a dark green blur, and abandoned the monitors to answer Ratchet's obviously panicked yelp. Hoist had fled from the operation, leaving the Chief Medical Officer and his apprentice to begin trying to staunch a renewed gush of Energon from Prowl's arm. Hoist had returned not seconds later, dragging with him a fluid pump to be roughly hooked into the tactician's elbow joint. From there the three medics had proceeded to stabilize the flow with an alternative fluid source. Ten painful minutes later the crisis had passed, allowing Hoist to continue observing the monitor while Ratchet and First Aid diligently rewired circuits. At one point the yellow medic had operated at Prowl's helm, prying open several latches to delve into the tactician's processor. It was at that point that Bluestreak had backed away from glass window and refused to watch.

Gradually the three medbots' scurrying ebbed into a practiced, less frenetic routine. It was while Ratchet mopped away at some of the gore around Prowl's arm that he sharply swung his gaze upward. Crystalline blue optics narrowed to slits as they locked on to Optimus'. Knowing all too well that he didn't appreciate the audience, the Prime beat Ratchet to the chase and opened a private communiqué. All at once that snarky voice ricocheted in his ear finials far louder than was considered comfortable.

_I'm feeling rather generous this orn_, Ratchet muttered as he continued tidying up. _You get to choose your punishment. Would you prefer having me rebuild you as something useful, like a motherboard? Or should I rip out your circuits and string them up around Iacon?_

If Ratchet was in the mood to terrorize his comrades, then it meant the imminent wave of danger had passed. Optimus allowed himself a dry chuckle that was too short-lived to fool the medic. _I could have you thrown in the brig for threatening your commanding officer_.

_Let's see how long that lasts_, huffed Ratchet. Not bothering to maintain optic contact, the yellow Cybertronian scooped up several pliers. He unceremoniously dumped the Energon-stained equipment into a decontamination solvent that First Aid deposited on the cart to his right. _Send the others down to medbay; I'll meet you there_.

Nodding briskly, Optimus relayed the message to the other Autobots. One by one they dispersed, reentering the elevator shaft to return to ground level. Depression clamped fiercely to the twins', saboteur's, and sharpshooter's frames, tainting the space around them. Wheeljack looked too confused to know how to feel; the black on his helm films had receded to a dull white. A blank slate.

Upon shifting away from the window Optimus was bombarded by a second communication relay, this one far less tolerant:

_In the future don't haul along spectators. When I say "wait," I slagging mean it. I'd rather have time to find a presentable answer instead of some impatient 'bots hawking me from the upper deck and coming to their own conclusions._

_You know what caused this?_

A pause. Then: _Yes and no. Like I told you before, it's bad, Optimus. Meet me downstairs. You're not going to like what I have to say…_

* * *

><p>Just as Optimus had predicted, they found Ironhide were they had left him. In the time it had taken to return, he'd had his jaw realigned, dents buffed out, and cuts healed, evident by the fresh welds his armor sported. The melee warrior had acquired a small container of wax and was sliding a cloth over his cannons. Each stroke added a layer of sheen to the black, whirring firearms. Such behavior wasn't unusual—the weapons specialist was all but bonded to his cannons, and balked at the mere thought of them falling into a state of ruin and decay. That the black mech had chosen to upkeep his weapons systems now, however, was more than a bit peculiar.<p>

The motions were an unmistakable threat.

When Optimus neared Ironhide threw a dark, calculating look his way. A grunt rose from the back of his throat as he gestured with the rag toward the medbay entrance. "Through there. Ratch' says to keep your mouthplates shut or he'll shut 'em for ya."

Sideswipe's shoulders slumped, a feeble grin tugging at the corner of his lips. "It's that gentle bedside tone of his that's made dear old Hatchet so popular," sighed the red warrior, striding past to be emitted by the sliding doors.

"Why do you think we always hang out in here? Just can't get enough of being insulted and brained by projectile wrenches," Sunstreaker chipped in.

Rather than comment on their disrespect for their superior—it was a waste of breath—Optimus politely inclined his helm to Ironhide before slipping into the medbay.

The medical ward, as always, was kept in an eternal state of cleanliness. Silver-blue metal underfoot glinted like ice, freshly washed and dried by the cleaning drones. Courtesy of Ratchet's regimented conduct, no supplies, equipment, or medications were left lying idly about the various tabletops and counters. Toward the back of the massive room was an assortment of berths. Only one of them was inhabited by the peaceful form of Trailbreaker sprawled atop its surface. Pale black armor on his chassis rose and fell in sync with his intakes. Apart from the quiet whir of circuitry and recharge-induced grunts, the defensive strategist was soundly asleep.

Currently Hoist was leaning against a nearby wall, scrubbing his faceplates. First Aid was located toward the far end of medical, away from Trailbreaker as he oversaw some obscured task. Not four feet away Ratchet was reviewing data that flitted over a translucent screen. Face illuminated by the pale glow, the dusky yellow medic's expression had a spectral vibe to it. His intelligent features creased contemplatively, fingers culling through the data stream by habit. Optimus refrained from making the group's presence know, fully aware that Ratchet knew they were here. It was a matter of when the medic decided to speak to them.

Kliks painstakingly trickled by before Ratchet leaned toward his prodigy and spared First Aid his opinion on some matter. Never turning his optics away from his point of focus (an enigma, given Optimus couldn't see past his shoulders), the Protectobot nodded and shooed him off. Pedes rang unnaturally loud across the floor as Ratchet approached.

A deadpan gaze greeted the six Cybertronians as Ratchet stopped before them. "You, you, you, you, and you." With each _you _the Chief Medical Officer gestured in turn to all but the Prime. "Unless your name is Optimus or you are leaking some sort of bodily fluid, then get out of my medbay."

"You can't just kick us out," Sideswipe spluttered.

"Perhaps I wasn't clear." Advancing a step closer, Ratchet drew his faceplates almost within tactile distance of the red mech's. The movement was all the more intimidating when one took into consideration the Energon still drying on his hands. "Since your designation can't be changed, I could always proceed with the latter exception. It would give me an adequate opportunity to introduce First Aid to the neural structure of twins. We could run _so many _experiments…"

Call it bravery or blind stupidity, Sideswipe refused to be cowed. He hissed back, "You can't use the 'pulling rank' slag on me. I'm not leaving."

"Where's Prowl?" Sunstreaker growled. Wraithlike, he materialized next to his brother's side.

Already Optimus' jaws had parted open, ready to order the medic and twins apart, when a shy, soft voice ceased their quarrel: "Ratchet, sir?"

Slowly, uncertainly, white fingers curled across the yellow medic's broad shoulders. Ratchet's growl died down as the red-and-white Protectobot inched closer, torn between obedience and insubordination. Breathing out a long exvent, he reminded his mentor, "We're healers, sir. Our job is to do all in our ability to repair the sick and wounded. But sometimes…" First Aid lowered his aquamarine optics to avoid the the twins' and Jazz's stares. "…sometimes not all of the injuries are external. But we are still obligated to try and fix them."

None of the present company stirred as Ratchet locked up under his apprentice's gentle touch. When it looked as if First Aid was about to ask again, the yellow medic's shoulders relaxed. Murmuring an unintelligible curse under his breath, Ratchet relented and eased out of First Aid's tender grip.

"Fine, fine," the medic rumbled. _He must have seen the point in fighting a losing battle_, Optimus mused. Impatiently Ratchet jerked his chin toward the spot First Aid had been standing over—a cryogenic regeneration chamber casting an eerie silver glow through the glass. "I have him placed back there—hey!"

Halfway through the CMO's speech Jazz had bolted, his black-and-white frame all but a silhouette as the saboteur moved with predatory grace. Hard on his heel were the twins, less fluid in their movements but equally as swift. Skidding to a halt, the TIC palmed the cool glass and keened softly.

Scuffing his pedes against the floor, Bluestreak squeaked, "T-That's okay. I think I'll head back to my quarters." The gray Praxian made to leave, only to falter when Optimus stilled his retreat with a touch to the arm.

"You did a good job saving Prowl's life," the red-and-blue warrior praised.

To the Prime's shock, Bluestreak averted his optics and darted out of touching distance. Before the crestfallen sniper fled from medbay, he shook his helm, "I doubt Prowl will see it that way." Still shivering, he departed.

Never once did Bluestreak look back.

Creaks resounded from Hoists's joints as the green medic pushed off against the wall. Frowning, the heavyset mech strolled up to Ratchet and gave him a light nudge. "You want me to go after him? The kid looked rattled."

Light flashed over the CMO's optics. Lenses whirred, focusing and refocusing on the entrance that Bluestreak had exited through. After a thoughtful pause Ratchet nodded curtly. "Do not spook him; if Bluestreak asks for peace and quiet, then leave him be and return here." The medic's gaze slid slantways toward the cryogenic chamber. "I may need assistance within the orn…"

Out of respect Hoist dipped his visored helm in a bow. "Yes, sir." Halfway through his leave the myrtle-colored medic leveled Optimus a nervous look. "Optimus? What should I tell others? You know, about…"

For an astrosecond Optimus considered. What was he supposed to do? Lie? There was a minute portion of his processor that couldn't help but resent the Matrix tucked away in his chassis. Couldn't the original Thirteen have bothered to impart some insight on matters such as this? Suddenly being the Prime made him feel a tad helpless. Powerless. Not even the wisdom of the ancients could tell him what to do, and desperately Optimus wanted to soothe the aches his comrades were suffering. Casting a fleeting glance at the three Autobots huddled around the silvery casket, Optimus made up his mind.

"Tell them that we do not know the incentive behind Prowl's suicide attempt, only that we are trying our best to find an answer. Dismissed."

Hoist nodded and charged out of the medbay.

Mentally Optimus braced himself before nodding to the two medics and inventor. On an unsaid accord the Prime ventured toward his comrades with slow, meticulous steps. When the red-and-white Protectobot strode ahead of the procession, Wheeljack leaned in toward Ratchet and teased, "You're going soft. First Aid has got you wrapped around his finger."

Sending a mulish stare in Wheeljack's direction, the medic muttered, "Give me one good reason, and I'll show you just how 'soft' I can be."

Wheeljack grinned. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say that's rather kinky."

Ratchet didn't even try to dignify that with an answer. Instead the yellow Cybertronian elbowed the soot-stained paintjob at the chest, scowling at his friend. Scrupulously the CMO padded in front of the monitor hooked up to Prowl's cryogenic chamber. Columns of data vibrated; readings flashed; notifications popped up on the screen to relay pressure and chemical gas changes in the capsule. For a moment the medic inhaled deeply, recycled the air, and turned to regard the 'bots present.

"As of this moment"—Ratchet brushed hand over the cold glass—"Prowl has been placed in a frozen state to speed the process of his system's natural repairs. All weapons have been offlined, and his battle computer has been subdued." With an extended palm he gestured to an uplink bridging the gap between the cryogenic chamber and monitor.

"How long do you intend to keep him in enforced stasis lock?" Optimus asked, his spark clenching tightly.

"Three days," First Aid answered. The red-and-white Protectobot stifled an embarrassed grate in his vocalizer, a polite cough, before he added, "Of course, that's a rough estimate. Even after we repaired his injuries, the damages were still extensive."

"Damn him," Ratchet growled. "He's been starving himself. His frame is only three-fourths of its minimal weight. Some of his armor and protoform have been lost in his body's attempt to wring any energy it could. I'm stunned that his self-repair systems hadn't engaged in an automatic shutdown."

Energon pumped through Optimus' lines faster when Ratchet continued: "I…" Here the Chief Medical Officer faltered midspeech, as if stealing himself for he was about to say next: "I ran several diagnostics on his processor to see if there was a directly medical cause. Perhaps a chemical imbalance in his pH levels, exposure to extreme radiation, excess salinity... There was the off-chance he could have interfaced with another 'bot and downloaded a virus."

"And?" For once, Sunstreaker didn't wear his normal, gruff expression.

"Nothing," Ratchet croaked. As if scattering water droplets from his armor, the yellow Cybertronian shook his helm in frustration. "We couldn't find anything wrong, save for the obvious." In a fit of frustration the medic uttered a disjointed snarl from his vocalizer. "I wish his systems had offlined! It would have given us a chance to repair the damage before it became _worse_." Livid blue optics roved about the saboteur, inventor, and frontliners. "How could we have missed this?"

"Prowl's general behavior has hardly altered," Optimus rumbled, flinching guiltily at the truth in Ratchet's words.

But Sideswipe was shaking his helm from side to side. "No, that's not true. Prowl…" Uncertainly the red warrior trailed off. He revved his engine before resuming: "He hasn't been acting right for the past few decacycles, now that I think about it. He practically bit my helm clean off my shoulders when Sunny and I were drinking high-grade on our break. Prowl told us off for 'wasting our time when there was work to be done,' and sent us on our merry way to do warehouse inventory. And he _knew_ we'd just pulled double shifts. Then, about a decacycle ago, Blaster told me that Beachcomber had to literally drag him from his office to get him to refuel. He's been really pissy for some time. Well, more than usual, anyway."

"Figures." Ratchet leaned into the monitor, faceplates darkening. "Short temper is a sign of depression. So is maintenance negligence. Sounds like he was trying to be reclusive, too, and bring less attention to himself. Since he was already a bit antisocial, we hardly noticed the difference. Slag his advanced logic computer; I'll bet Prowl put two and two together and came up with the same answer."

A wretched, quiet sob rasped out off Jazz's throat. Never taking his optics off of the ghostly appearance of his friend, Jazz hoarsely lamented, "I'm so sorry, Prowler. Ya didn't deserve this."

From behind a gruff voice sneered, "Ya sure about that, Jazz? 'Cause if ya ask me, Prowl had it coming."

Optimus wasn't the only one to whirl around. Jazz gave an unsteady lurch from the cryogenic chamber, denta bared with feral savagery as he shoved his way toward Ironhide. Unbeknownst to the medbay's current occupants, the weapons specialist had slipped inside. The black Cybertronian folded his arms across his chassis, unphased by Jazz's movements even when the two officers were separated by a wire's breadth.

Blue light flashed across Jazz's visor. "What did'ja say, half-bit?"

"Ya heard me the first time." Coldly Ironhide sized up his opponent, his gaze meeting the other Autobots' for a nanoklik to gauge their reactions. Minus Jazz's indignant outburst, no one else moved, too stunned by the veteran's declaration to do more than listen. "If he was so willing to end his own life, we should have let him go about his business and be done with it."

"You—You—" Incoherent with rage, Jazz could only emit strangled hisses that bordered white noise.

Ironhide's optic ridge inched upward, posture unflinching as he sized up the TIC. "Don't deny it, Jazz. What good is an advisor to his own faction if he doesn't give a damn about the lives of his subordinates?"

"_What?_" Wheeljack squawked.

A snort of disgust left the hulking black warrior as he flashed Wheeljack a cool look. "What sort of commander tries to off himself? The way I see it"—Jazz seethed as Ironhide gestured outwardly with a hand—"it's disgrace to the memories of those who have thus far perished. All of the Autobots who've died in this Pit-slagging war didn't get a say in the matter; what Prowl did was an insult to every spark I've watched dwindle into nothin'. What he did was the ultimate slap in the faceplates to his own comrades! Ya want better proof?" Ironhide growled. "Why don't we ask some of the 'bots who went on that mission to Kaon? Oh, wait, I forgot; they couldn't be here today!"

Claws raked the air a mere inch from Ironhide's curled lips. Grunts left Sunstreaker and Sideswipe as they each clung tightly to Jazz's arms, restraining the saboteur. Menace as sincere as a Decepticon's glinted in Jazz's visor; snarling, the black-and-white let his visor click back, revealing blazing optics. Despite the two melee warrior clinging to his limbs he was doing a fairly decent job at trying to dismantle the other officer.

"Stop!" Optimus shouted.

It took the combined efforts of the twins and Wheeljack (who had thrown his arms around Jazz's midsection) to stop him from ripping Ironhide apart. While the brothers were doing their best to keep Jazz from mauling the scarred 'bot, their expressions spoke volumes of their desire to release Jazz and let the TIC have his merry way with Ironhide.

The weapons specialist's glare plummeted several degrees toward arctic capacity.

Moments later he stopped flailing. Ragged pants left Jazz's vocalizer as he hissed, "As your Third-in-Command, I'm orderin' ya t' leave medbay. You can escort yourself out. _Go_."

For an astrosecond Ironhide lingered, clearly wanting to say more yet weighing the odds against a murderous Jazz. Although he didn't possess Prowl's sophisticated logic center, Ironhide knew the odds weren't in his favor. Rather than argue with his superiors, Ironhide spat at the floor in Prowl's direction. Ratchet only leveled his friend a cool stare as the veteran spun around and stomped toward the exit. No comment was made about his crude behavior or how one of the medbots would be cleaning it up. Just before Ironhide passed through the doors, without looking back he called out, "Jus' ask yourself this: Prowl was your friend. What sort of friend does that to another? If Prowl really gave a frag 'bout ya—'bout any of ya—then why'd he try to kill himself knowing he'd hurt ya, too?"

Just as Bluestreak and Hoist had done, Ironhide prowled into the corridor. The paneled doors slid shut behind him.

A wheezy exhale left Jazz as he slumped into his bondage. Tentatively the ruby and golden warriors let go, as did Wheeljack, leaving the black-and-white to gaze forlornly at the entrance to medbay. By nature the inventor's outward appearance had softened into its inquisitive, albeit worried, features. Frowning, Wheeljack turned toward Optimus. "Sir," he ventured cautiously, "why didn't you reprimand him for what he said?"

"Yeah," muttered Sunstreaker darkly. "He had no right…"

The Prime's broad shoulders slumped in defeat. "I can tell my soldiers how to fight, but I cannot tell them how to feel." Once more the red-and-blue mech moved toward his Third, gently clapping a palm on Jazz's shoulder armor. "You are not to blame for what happened tonight," Optimus murmured. "You can't hold yourself responsible for something beyond your control."

"I thought…I jus' thought he was unhappy," Jazz sighed. As Optimus removed his servo, the saboteur cast the other mechs an aggrieved look. "I was so fraggin' oblivious. Didn't even consider that he wanted t' die…"

"Anyone got a good idea as to what was going on in his processor?" Sideswipe questioned. Panic burned across the frontliner's face like a signal flare. "You—You don't think…that _we_ drove him to it, do you, Sunny?"

Uncharacteristic consideration dwelled in the yellow warrior's spark, heavy and leaden. "Not sure," Sunstreaker rumbled, massaging his temple. Guiltily he muttered, "You don't think our pranks finally caused him to snap?"

Ratchet snorted. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Maybe…" First Aid's sudden contribution had six pairs of optics zoning in on him. "Are we certain that Prowl was trying to commit suicide?" The word caused the twins and Jazz to simultaneously flinch. "It could very well have been a cry for help."

"Negative," Wheeljack corrected the younger mech. "Blue said that the keypad to his office was heavily firewalled. Prowl wanted to be left alone. If the kid hadn't found him when he did…"

Nervously the inventor shied away from that line of thought, too disturbed by the implications behind it.

Cycling air through his vents, Optimus approached the cryogenic chamber. Its iridescent blue-white coloration illuminated his faceplates, throwing shadowy recesses across chinks in his armor. Energon churned through his pumps at a slightly faster pace as the Prime memorized Prowl's vacant features. To him, the Autobots under his command weren't just cannon fodder; they were his friends, colleagues, and family. Optimus more than understood the twins' and Jazz's fears; they were his own, a gnarled, constricted knot wrapped tightly around his spark. Above all, Optimus shared the burden of guilt. However _illogical_ it was—the word caused him to cringe—there was still a part of the Prime that faulted himself for his oversight. To see the black-and-white Praxian in a comatose state made Optimus feel suddenly vulnerable, mortal, and above all, powerless.

It wasn't a feeling that he liked.

As Prime, it wasn't a feeling he should possess.

And yet Optimus did.

During his interlude he caught wind of Sideswipe and Sunstreaker whispering into each other's audials. Something about "cleaning up their mess."

From behind a cheery—if somewhat forced—voice welled up: "Don't worry, Jazz. It'll be okay. You—we—can do whatever's necessary to make it up to Prowl. We'll help him through this, 'kay? We'll help him."

Wheeljack's stab at comforting the saboteur did little more than cause Jazz to stop rattling out quiet sobs. Ratchet still hovered near the monitors, humming in concentration; when the Matrix-bearer stole a glance at his CMO, his optics were distracted, every few kliks straying toward the twins, Wheeljack, and Jazz. Despite his legendary temperament, the pale yellow medic wasn't sparkless, yet he appeared too awkward to effectively comfort the others.

Refraining from turning to address them, Optimus surveyed Prowl's hollow form. The massive Cybertronian wanted to offer guidance, but was afraid to face the others directly for fear they would see the fear in his face.

"Well said, Wheeljack. Unfortunately, we won't be able to do anything until Prowl is awake and in a more secure state of mind." Even quieter, Optimus admitted, "However, we cannot help Prowl if he is unwilling to help himself."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: Don't stay mad at Ironhide for too long. His reasons are mean, but completely justified. I tried to give as many different angles to suicide attempts as possible. The aforementioned reactions that Ratchet, First Aid, Wheeljack, Optimus, the twins, Jazz, Bluestreak, and Ironhide gave are all possible ways for people to feel after watching a friend or loved one try to kill themselves. Besides, ol' 'Hide isn't going to stay condenscending for too long—a certain femme changes his mind…

Reviews are appreciated, as is constructive feedback! It gives me a direction to go in.


	4. Catalyst

**Warnings**: Swearing, violence, and further attempts at suicide.  
><strong>Rating<strong>: M  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: If I owned _Transformers_, I'd clarify the long-standing issue of Cybertronian sex. But since I can't, I'll just let the Internet fill my head with absurd fantasies. Besides, it's much more fun to fantasize. :D

**Summary**: Day one of recovery begins. Many things are said, some for the better, and others, for worse.

**Author's Note**: Wow. I was really taken aback by all of the different reactions to the last chapter, especially the ones concerning Ironhide. Some of you readers could sympathize while others downright hated his circuitry. I was really amazed by such contrasting reactions.

In response to the reviewer **no name peanut butter**, thanks for reaching out. Believe it or not, the family member who survived the two attempts is now doing well as a part time photographer and real estate agent, so all's well that ends well. Just goes to show that life, believe it or not, does get better. Because a lot of those who commented were so expressive, open, and honest about personal experiences, I wanted to reciprocate. Fair is fair. Once upon a time, I suffered from severe anorexia and depression, coupled with a suicidal longing for the pain to end. My pulse was 30 beats per minute. I used to be afraid to sleep at night for fear of never waking up. Then, my friends and family showed just how much they cared. I got help. I was saved. I volunteered to speak at my school about eating disorders and depression. In a way, writing this story makes me believe that one day someone will read it, and their life will be saved, too. Maybe this tale will give someone else hope. And maybe—just maybe—I'll help someone else breathe a bit easier because I lived.

As per usual, my thanks go to the latest reviewers **Stjarnas Alskare**, **Sideslip**, **Acidgreenflames**, **DemonSurfer**, **no name peanut butter**, **iNsAnE nO bAkA**, **Shizuka Taiyou**, **renegadewriter8**, **Fianna9**, **Morrigayn DeWyvern**, and **Richard'sQueen aka LGFS**.

Two other important tidbits: This story will be updated "regularly," which means in Alex-speak "as often as I can find the free time." Secondly, there won't be any Jazz/Prowl in this story, although I am a diehard fangirl of the pairing. An upcoming fanfic, _Experimental_, however, should satisfy some of your…_shameless_ muses, along with a few of mine.

* * *

><p>Chapter Four: <strong>Catalyst<strong>

"_Circumstances define us; they force us onto one road or another, and then they punish us for it_."

– Ivan Turgenev

* * *

><p><em>Automatic systems scans engaged<em>. _Reviewing_…

_Scan complete_. _Structural integrity: 74%_. _Status: unstable_.

_Backup energy generator unlocked_. _Charging_…

_Structural integrity_: _87%_. _Status: operational_.

_Stasis lock retrieval instigated_. _Commencing_…

_Stasis lock retrieval complete_. _All systems online_.

With a violent wrenching gasp for air, Prowl onlined. Data at once flooded through the tactician's neural net, a relay of sensory input so overwhelming that seconds passed in which he just ignored it. Numb and fatigued, he refused to acknowledge his surroundings.

Rather than utilize the necessary processing power to understand his circumstances, Prowl focused on his body instead. The hum of circuitry vibrated throughout his chassis, electricity jumping between the internal pathways. Wires brimmed with an energized charge. Gears rotated and collided against each other in endless repetition. Coolant, water, and lubricants created a backdrop echo that rushed through his piping. Pumps, propelling the fluids; filters, cycling out impurities and wastes; hydraulics, transporting each liquid substance to its respective destination.

Most prevalent of all the sensations, however, was a powerful vibration that came and went in a pattern of calm pulses.

_Thud_.

His spark.

Steady. Loud. Existing.

A whirlwind of panic replaced the calm as Prowl came to one conclusion that he wasn't prepared to face:

He was alive.

Vents heaving, the tactician unshuttered his optics. At the sudden brilliance of overhead light, he was forced to adjust the spiral of his lenses. Reducing them to the dimmest setting, he assessed the limited view he had from his back. From his supine posture Prowl was able to take in his surroundings—or rather, lack of. Confining, square walls of white-toned silver composed the bare quarters. Frantically Prowl jerked his helm side-to-side, the extension cables in his neck twisting. A telltale _beep _emanated to his right; just at the edge of his periphery vision the white-and-black mech could distinguish a monitor. Three different screens were visible, each relaying a set of vitals: Energon levels, processor activity, and sparkbeat.

Through narrowed optics Prowl followed the bundle of cables that dipped to the floor. The tendrils wound out of sight before traveling over the side of the berth and hooking into a panel squarely above his chestplates.

Fear—raw, suffocating, instinctive—crashed headlong into him, dominating every analytical capability he possessed. With a violent thrash Prowl jerked his frame, howling when an electrical backlash subdued him. Harsh gasps escaped his parted mouthplates. Louder than his exvents were the pings that the machine responded with. Meanwhile the R wave climbed higher on the screen, its wavelength shortening with the increased pounding inside his chest.

Again the Second attempted to roll off the medical berth, screeching from an amalgam of rage, panic, and agony when another zap followed. As Prowl labored for breath he fought to raise his helm off the polymer surface. Escape required leaving the berth. Leaving the berth required the unknown obstacle being removed. And as rudimentary as his assessment was, he needed to identify the hindrance. Wide optics focused and magnified on what he recognized as high-voltage stasis cuffs shackling his wrists and ankles to the berth. Hopeless and inane as the effort was, Prowl yanked at the chains once more. Electromagnetic energy surged from the metal to his frame.

_No…_

Already the black-and-white Autobot was tearing through his neural net in search of his weapons cortex. Upon reaching that string of coding, he frantically slammed the activation sequence into place.

_Battle protocols offline_. _Access to all weapons denied_. _Authorization required_.

Authorization…? Those were _his_ systems! To have them tampered with… He snarled back somewhat hysterically, _Override now! Activate acid pellet rifle—_

_Error_. _Override command negated_. _Authorization required to access firearm inventory_.

In that fragile moment of anticipation, something shattered.

Beads of coolant burned behind his lenses. Subjected to a rare feeling of abject loss, Prowl wailed.

Static crackled in his vocalizer with each sob that couldn't be bit back. Logic and justification be damned, Prowl wanted out. No; he _needed_ to escape. Each second spent writhing against his bindings led toward scenarios he didn't dare consider. Repercussions. Responsibilities. Explanations. Glares that would no doubt come from his colleagues as they demanded answers that Prowl simply couldn't give. At this point the Praxian was beyond caring if he continued to inflict pain upon himself. Life, he deduced, was the ultimate punishment, and now, more than ever, Prowl prayed for death. A tainted retribution he no doubt deserved.

The results gained from his deactivation would repair so many mistakes.

The Autobots' success in battle would increase. His comrades could recharge peacefully knowing that their lives were no longer endangered. Far within the abyssal reaches of his processor Prowl conjured every morbid means of self-terminating. It would satisfy those darker desires crowding at the edge of his mind, breaking it.

Self hatred. Guilt. Shame. Regret. Rage. Each sentiment was powerful enough to make the black-and-white spasm.

"Get out of my head," Prowl begged. Uttering the words stung his throat, a feeling akin to glass shredding his intakes. "End it…!" The tactician's cries rose an octave higher. "Kill me, please!_ Let me die!_"

The hiss of a door panel sliced across Prowl's screeches, bringing with it an oppressive silence. Ominous calm replaced his throes, an icy stillness put into place by the medic who had stepped into the room.

Unreadable faceplates were fixed on him, devoid of expression and carefully neutral. As Ratchet slowly approached the berth Prowl shrank back. Animal instincts screamed _predator_ at the CMO. However irrational the feeling, he could neither suppress it nor deny his sudden fear. While the Praxian was acutely aware of his open display of dread, he did his best to compensate by stilling his vents.

At last the dusky yellow medic towered over the foot of the polymer slab, arms firmly crossed over his chestplates in an unreadable gesture.

"You're awake."

Such a casual statement had been the last thing Prowl expected to hear. Nonetheless, he kept his guard up, his optics never leaving the medic. With deliberately slow steps the yellow Autobot moved to the monitors on Prowl's right. Either the CMO's timing was coincidence, or Ratchet had surveillance cameras established within the room.

A powerful throb pounded in his spark when Ratchet spoke: "Approximately three orns have passed since you were emitted to the ICU. No doubt you have discovered that some of your regular faculties are currently offline. Given the events that brought you here"—a sharp swing of his helm brought the two mechs into optic contact—"I would deem that wise."

Prowl refused to respond. The Pit, there was a part of him that felt like his vocalizer would fracture if he tried to form words. Save for the monitor's vicious _beeps_ mimicking his pulse there was no other noise.

Pensive faceplates leaned closer, bringing Ratchet almost within tactile distance of Prowl's. Vulnerable and exposed as he was, he felt the danger of the unknown breathing across his face. While certainly not programmed to operate in a fight, Ratchet wasn't helpless. Rotating saws, diamond-sharp blades, and an arsenal of other serrated equipment lay dormant beneath the medic's hull. Access to a variety of potent chemicals and a knowledge of Cybertronian anatomy made Ratchet deadly. Shrewd intelligence, coupled with a fiery temper, made him unpredictable.

Whatever remnant of his logic computer remained tried to draw his attention to the Autobot decal on the medic's shoulder. The symbol that allied the two by faction should have reminded him that his comrade posed no threat. Yet he refused to relinquish the idea that the other Autobot might attack.

"I need to know what happened, Prowl," Ratchet said. "You may not like what I'm about to say or want to hear it, but you have little choice in the matter." Spark all but pounding in his throat, Prowl chose to test the stasis cuffs again. They jolted electricity through his limbs, forcing him to grit his denta for fear of crying out. The pained shift of his frame was not lost on the medic, who at once reached out to touch him. Too late, he was unable to conceal his panic-induced wrench to get out of reach. The chains released electrical waves that forced his frame to stop twitching. His chassis heaved from the backlash.

Hands pressed against his chestplates, invasive, cautious, and knowing.

"You know that trying to move is useless," Ratchet commented. Digits pressed more firmly against him, and with every shift Prowl was acutely reminded of the strength of those servos, and just how exposed he was. "In fact, I believe that it was _you_ who helped Special Ops design them." Hands slowly retreated, returning to the medic's sides. "Listen to me: I want to help you, but I need your cooperation. Until I can assess the state of your mind, you will remain here for your own protection."

_Don't speak_. _Don't respond_. Be it instinct, logic, or a byproduct of his emotions, Prowl couldn't confide in Ratchet. He couldn't bring himself to trust his eons-old comrade. Too many unknowns were involved, too many gambles, too many risks. Relinquish, and suddenly everything would spiral beyond his control.

Not that it hadn't already.

Ratchet knew what he had done. What he had tried to do. Without understanding Ratchet's intentions, or that of the other Autobots', he couldn't confirm if an ulterior motive lay in wait, if they wanted to punish him for his actions.

The desire to die swept through his sensor grid like a frigid caress, numbing him for a klik. It was intoxicating and excruciating all at once, driving his thoughts toward the single need to offline.

Now.

"I'm going to ask you several questions," murmured Ratchet. "I need you to answer as honestly as you can. We need to understand what made you want to die." While the dusky yellow mech's voice remained calm, the way his optics focused was intense.

Under the scrutiny Prowl shifted, immobilized by the morbid thoughts his processor offered.

From his subspace Ratchet withdrew a datapad and stylus. "Why did you cut yourself?"

The doorwinger trembled but held his tongue.

The Chief Medical Officer jotted something on the screen before looking at Prowl. "Fine. Another question, then: When did you last refuel on your own time?"

Silence. This time it was drawn out for almost a breem before Ratchet heavily sighed. "Have you had any confrontations with other officers?" the medic inquired, a little more stiffly than before. At the brittle tone Prowl flinched. _There_ was the threat he had been trying to confirm. Sensing the other 'Bot's calm waning, his logic center flared to life. Calibrations, statistics, and simulations immediately began to formulate scenarios for escape. The only way out was the door just ten feet away. Factors included Ratchet, whom he had to maneuver around, and the stasis cuffs, which he had to remove from his wrists and ankles. Without weapons, he would have to rely on surprise and evasion, just long enough to improvise an alternate death.

Ratchet's grip tightened on the datapad and stylus. "Prowl…" His vocalizer dropped to a lower register as the medic repeated, "You need to talk to me. I can't make it better unless I know what's going on in your head." The tip of the stylus tapped the glass screen. "Are you currently being abused in any way by another Autobot?"

When there was no forthcoming answer, the broad-shouldered medbot took a step closer, looking torn. On a subconscious level Prowl was urged to shy away and was immediately subdued by an electric pulse.

"Is your current post as Tactical Advisor and Second-in-Command too stressful to manage?"

As the tendrils of residual charge slipped across nodes, his systems sifted through the energy, analyzing it. It played against his internal generators and turbines. While the electrical release was meant to restrict his movements, it was also energy. Energy that the Praxian's frame was designed to absorb, just like any other Cybertronian's.

"Did you plan to kill yourself in advance?"

The realization was brought to the forefront of his mind so abruptly that Prowl rebooted his optics in surprise. It had been during a particularly strenuous training session when Jazz demonstrated the full capacity of his magnetic amplifiers. Absorbing, harnessing, and discharging electromagnetic pulses in concentrated bursts were skills that Jazz claimed weren't quite as uncommon as once believed. In a brief reprieve from the sparring match, the saboteur had commented on the ability, citing it as retention of energy and its redistribution. Specialized equipment in his systems allowed his talents to be refined to concentrated EMP blasts, but electrical discharge was a skill inherent in the basic anatomy of all Cybertronians.

Innocently enough, he'd offered a few pointers on the technique. That conversation felt lifetimes away.

"When did you start feeling suicidal?"

_Jazz_…

Using the technique now only felt like a betrayal. _But_ _it has to be done. _For the friends who no doubt hated him. For the comrades who could only be trusted to despise him. For the life that needed to end.

All reasoning waylaid, the Second tentatively twitched his joints. As expected, the stasis cuffs released electricity into the sensors. Rather than be stunned by the pain Prowl willed his systems to register the charge and incorporate it. His spark beat uncomfortably against its casing as wires and circuits sparked.

"Was this your first attempt?"

Pistons pumped harder and faster with each electrical burst. Focused as the Praxian was on his subtle motions, he never noticed the way Ratchet's fist clenched.

"Have you been experiencing insomnia or been unable to recharge?"

Uncomfortable as the building charge was, Prowl could feel the overflow of energy lending new strength to his frame. Jerking his wrists a little harder this time, the tactician winced, experiencing a rush of adrenaline when the buildup reached critical. Systems scans reported a backlash soon approaching from the excess electrical storage. _So close_…

He never saw it coming.

With a snarl of impatience Ratchet tossed his datapad and stylus aside. The collision of the two items against the floor jolted Prowl out of his concentration. The medic's expression hardened as he shoved his faceplates mere inches from the tactician's. The medic's harsh ventilations and the SIC's panicked ones permeated the shared vicinity, fogging the glass lenses and metal on each others' faces.

Ratchet latched his digits around the monochrome shoulder plating. "Look at me, Prowl," the yellow medic snarled, denta bared. "I need answers! But believe me, I won't keep standing here and wasting my time if you refuse to cooperate! Fine. You don't care. Yay for you. Maybe it's what you really wanted all along. But you know what?"

It took all of the tactician's effort not to whimper as Ratchet hissed into his faceplates, "What you want no longer matters."

Releasing him roughly, oblivious to the stasis cuffs' discharge, the CMO glared. "Do you have any idea what you've done?" spat the medic. His vocalizer shot up an octave as he all but screeched, "Your little stunt has the entire base in a state of panic! I've been buried up to my fragging headlights in paperwork that your suicide attempt caused, because Primus forbid that I shouldn't have more work to do than the war already gives me! Is that what you wanted, Prowl? Well, congratulations. The emotional stress around here is at an all time high because of that public display you pulled off!"

He snorted. "Why do I even bother?" muttered the pale yellow mech. "I'm wasting my time and energy on a 'bot that doesn't even care if he lives. Perhaps I should be saving them for soldiers who _don't_ want to die."

When Prowl shivered and emitted a strangled sob, the medic bit off, "Don't you even _dare_ cry. If you were really upset over this, you would be giving me answers."

Struck dumb by the barbed comment, Prowl's intakes hitched. Just as his numb CPU began to process what the medic said, Ratchet leaned in slowly. No longer bothering to conceal his emotions, the Praxian could read every detail on Ratchet's face. The curled lips. The deeply furrowed creases around his optics. The convulsions of barely-restrained servos. The narrowing of his optics until they were dark slits.

"Why are you doing this, Prowl?" Ratchet demanded. This time his tone had become less shrill, and raspier with suppressed rage. Although their bodies were close in terms of distance, the glaring medic refrained from reaching out. However long the desire would be squelched was undetermined, and Prowl struggled harder, charge building. "Don't you care that your _brother_ was beside himself when he found out? Don't you care that your _friends_ were hurt when they had to look at you covered in your own Energon?" When the only response he got was Prowl's unyielding speechlessness, the last of Ratchet's professional demeanor snapped. The dusky-yellow mech lunged.

"Ratchet!"

Ratchet stopped inches away from Prowl. The SIC's spark throbbed against the internal glass compartment, a painful reminder that he was still alive. As Ratchet painstakingly rotated to face the speaker Prowl stared down the length of his berth. Hovering at the door was First Aid, hands clutching at a medical instrument of some unknown design. Light blue optics between the violently shaking supine 'bot to his superior, who at last straightened in response to his name.

Cycling a harsh vent, the larger of the two medics inquired, "Yes?"

For an astrosecond the Protectobot fumbled, clearly uncertain how to address the situation. Finally coming to a conclusion, First Aid hastily explained, "I had a question…regarding"—hesitantly his gaze shifted to Prowl, causing the latter to tense—"you know…'it.' What we were discussing earlier."

Shuttering his optics, the broad-shouldered mech at last dipped his head in a nod. "Very well. I'll call Wheeljack and we'll go over the diagram." He lingered alongside the berth, face never straying from his apprentice's, as if the elder medic was dependent on it to keep himself in line. Footsteps rang hollowly in the enclosed quarters as Ratchet at last urged his pedes into action. He shouldered past First Aid into the medbay.

That left Prowl, spine-first against the polymer covering, with the Protectobot loitering in the doorway.

Electricity was all but visibly twining around his internal circuits, zapping the exoskeleton beneath his armor.

Worry tinged the Protectobot's faceplates. Before Prowl's processor could dictate a derivative, First Aid relented and padded into the room. Not sure what to make of the second medic's visit, the black-and-white tensed, jaw firmly clamped shut, waiting.

He stopped just three feet short of Prowl's chained ankles, gaze averted as he turned his helm to study the tiled floor. With increasing desperation the SIC struggled not to cry out, cringe in fear, or convulse. First Aid was a threat, albeit a different kind. The longer the Protectobot remained in the ward, the less likely his chance at escape became. Each passing second only corroded at what little patience and self-control Prowl had left before the instinct to flee took over.

"Please understand," the smaller 'bot pleaded, "he's not angry at you. He's just…upset. He r-really does care. It's just hard…for Ratchet to show it." Forcing down an audible swallow, First Aid cleared his intakes and looked anywhere but at Prowl. "I—"

Whatever he was about to impart next was cut across by an incessant _ping_ from the nearby monitor. Jumping at the sudden sound, First Aid hastened to the flashing screen and began to type into the keyboard. A long, jarring, electrically-charged shiver ran down the length of Prowl's frame as the smaller medic evaluated a reading.

"Sparkbeat accelerated," murmured the Protectobot. He darted a look at Prowl. "Systems registering a…" Realization dawned on First Aid's face. Just as he whirled around and prepared to shout for Ratchet, Prowl struck.

The critical charge swept through the floodgates relentlessly. Jagged arcs of electricity surged over the surface of his frame, chords of the refined plasma electrocuting everything they touched. With a primal scream Prowl arched off the berth. Uncontrolled as it was, Prowl had no way to direct the charge as it tore through every sensor his relay possessed. Wires along his engine literally snapped and frayed from the piercing sensation.

Too close to escape the sparking field, First Aid was likewise hit by the voltage. With a yelp of pain the red-and-white apprentice staggered into a wall.

The metallic cuffs sparked and sputtered. With so much electricity the restraints were forced to short-circuit and snap apart. Identical_ clicks_ filled the room amidst the fading crackles of energy.

For a fleeting moment the tactician lay limp and exhausted, cycling oxygen furiously through his intakes. The scent of burning chrome tinged the atmosphere.

He was free.

With the realization came an onslaught of voices and emotions in his processor. Each scratchy whisper, each searing sentiment, however different in nature, guided Prowl back toward his initial goal.

Everything around him blurred. Unfeeling. Uncaring. Save for that last desire to die, he took no heed of his environment. The doorwinged mech swung his legs over the berth, letting his fist connect solidly with First Aid's jaw in the same movement. Simultaneously the cable that had been plugged into the panel in his chest popped out. Before the Protectobot could stumble away from the inertia, Prowl had slid into the medic's frame and jammed his elbow into the other's abdomen. A wrenching gasp croaked out of First Aid's vocalizer.

Once upon a time, Prowl might have balked at the way he bastardized his old Diffusion teachings. The martial arts form was purely self defense, not provocation, yet as he delivered a final skull bash to First Aid's helm, he couldn't bring himself to care.

Without remorse he abandoned the crumpled form at his pedes and turned. Already breaking into a run, Prowl felt a jolt of panic when Ratchet moved into the doorframe. Nonetheless he ran directly at the medic. Coupled with the speed of his gait, Prowl slid, flattening his spinal strut against the metallic floor and gracelessly passing between the medic's legs.

Upon clearing the second obstacle, Prowl twisted, propelling himself upright by palming the ground and forcing the weight onto his shoulders. Pedes solidly connected with the surface underfoot as Ratchet whipped around. Vorns of training already had Prowl anticipating the next move. As the Chief Medical Officer made to palm his chassis, Prowl countered, arm sweeping aside the attack. In retaliation his left hand reached for the cage of bars across Ratchet's chestplates. He pulled inward, sidestepping to avoid his opponent's fall as the other 'bot's weight turned against him. A heavy crash filled the medbay.

Left to his own devices the Praxian stepped further into the massive room, doorwings shaking. Time was limited. Biting his lower lip, Prowl scanned the far right side of the medbay where a majority of the supplies were kept. What would it be? A quick slice with a laser scalpel to the throat? A stab through the head with a blade? A whirring drill burrowing into his spark chamber?

A shiver of anticipation ran down his body. There could be no room for error or miscalculation. No loose ends. Just an end to the dark desires crowding at the edge of his mind that would, at last, be satisfied. Finally, the pain would go away.

Prowl never had the chance to act.

A much heavier frame rammed into his. End-over-end in a screeching tangle of limbs the two Autobots rolled. The newcomer came out on top, and it was with surprise that he recognized Wheeljack's face gazing down into his.

"Prowl—" The inventor's words were cut off as he thrashed beneath him. A long, desperate wail rose out of his vocalizer when his struggles did nothing to help.

"Ratchet!" yelped Wheeljack. Burly hands slammed into Prowl's chest, pinning him to the floor. "I need back-up, pronto! Get him neutralized!"

More pressure abruptly descended upon his legs, reducing his kicks to feeble jerks. From his back Prowl was barely able to snatch a glimpse of a very battered and dented First Aid pushing down on his legs.

Reduced to instinct and brutal terror, the black-and-white mech doubled his efforts to dislodge the two. Every time he writhed beneath them his vocalizer would crack on a scream that said more than words could. Vaguely the Second-in-Command was aware of Wheeljack yelling something else, but amidst the roaring in his audios, he couldn't decipher it.

It became painfully clear when a shadow fell across the contours of his face. With a stony expression Ratchet leaned and knelt down next to Prowl's helm, one servo holding his chevron while another wielded a syringe.

Beads of coolant fell unbidden from the tactician's optics. In a final bid for freedom Prowl struggled harder, begging as the needle came closer and closer to his face: "Please…stop! Don't do this to me! _No!_"

Ratchet shuttered his optics, breathed hard, and pushed the syringe forward.

The bite of the needle tip in his neck sent a wave of heat rolling through him. Blackness tugged at the edge of his vision as more of the sedative was drained into his Energon lines. Strength slowly gave way, and the more Prowl tried to flail his limbs, the faster the drug passed through his body. Even with the weight on his chest and legs he still tried to break free, however useless those actions were rendered.

Before the last dregs of consciousness could be taken from him, Prowl managed to cough out a plea at the yellow faceplates inches from his own.

"Please…don't…"

His voice trailed off into white noise when the shadows at last claimed him. Under the influence of the tranquilizer his head fell lifelessly against the floor.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: Prowl's escape plan was loosely based off of the idea of a rechargeable battery. The way I figured, mechanical beings would need a way to deal with ambient electricity, and what better way than to retain and release it? I always imagined that it would be a common part of Cybertronian physiology. Jazz is different because his systems were specifically designed to allow him to harness electromagnetic energy. EMP blasts, charged electrical release, clinging to metal by polarizing their surfaces, and magnetizing nearby objects are inherent skills that he refined over the centuries.

This chapter was so hard to write, namely because the information regarding what happens when patients first wake up is so limited. There's next to nothing on the Internet about this phase of the recovery process, so I had to improvise. I didn't want to ask people because I was afraid I'd be sending the wrong message about myself, and I certainly wasn't about to interview the family members who went through this. No need to bring up unhappy memories.

Needless to say, things got really out of hand in this chapter, no thanks to Ratchet. It really doesn't help when your attending physician is also one of your closest friends.

To reward all of you for being so patient and supportive, here's the title of the next chapter.

_Chapter Fiv_e: _Fine Lines_


	5. Fine Lines

**Warnings**: Swearing, ideological topics, disturbing imagery.

**Disclaimer**: The only thing I own is the plot, and even then there's still some leeway regarding that.

**Rating**: M

**Summary**: In an investigation to try and figure out what happened, several 'bots discover that they've only just scratched the surface.

**Author's Note**: I wish I had the proper amount of free time to respond to every review. It makes me feel like a shithead when I can't individually tell each of you how happy your reviews make me. You guys deserve so much more for being so supportive and encouraging. (You also deserve more frequent updates, but with my schedule, I'm a bit unable to do as such.) Alas, I'm afraid that for now I'll have to address the bulk of them come each new chapter. Thank you **Starfire201**, **Acidgreenflames**, **Fianna9**, **iNsAnE nO bAkA**, **DemonSurfer**, **renegadewriter8**, **Richard'sQueen aka LGFS**, **Sideslip**, **LucasVN**, **Amai Seishin-Hime**, **Shizuka Taiyou**, **XxArtificalizedxX**, **Switchgear**, **Qwikshot**, **digiwriter1392**, and **Freezing Inferno**.

An extremely large thank you goes to one of my idols here on FF, **Ghost of the Dawn**, who I shamelessly admit is a big inspiration for me when it comes to Transformers and angsty Prowl-related stories. Your feedback means worlds to me, my dear.

The chapter you're about to read wasn't scheduled until waaaay later. It only got moved up the queue because Jazz got in my face and demanded that he get some lovin'. Or else he'd sic his Special Ops boys on me and hold my flashdrive ransom. Well, you gotta give the mech props for delivery.

* * *

><p>Chapter Five: <strong>Fine Lines<strong>

"_You climb to reach the summit, but once there, discover that all roads lead down.__"_

— Stanislaw Lem

* * *

><p>"You ready?"<p>

"Yeah." Jazz sucked in a long draught of air through his vents. "Just do it."

Slowly, Hound stretched out his free hand toward the security lock. From the datapad clutched in his left palm the tracker read off the numbers listed, punching them into the system. Numeral by numeral the locking mechanisms came undone until the last digit was entered. A green light blipped at the top of the keypad as Hound stepped back from the wall. With a bell-like ping the locks on the door released.

_Password accepted_. _Welcome, Autobot Prowl_.

Jazz's fists clenched until his fingers left shallow gouges in his palm.

"Well," Hound sighed, "let's see what we can find."

Both mechs briefly swapped a glance before the green tracker palmed the silver panel. At his touch the door hissed open, sliding at a painfully slow pace, it seemed, as if the room was in no hurry to relinquish all of its secrets. Without waiting for orders Steeljaw darted between his legs, jaws already parted to inhale residual particles clinging to the air. Of all of Blaster's symbiotes the golden feline was the most adept at tracking, able to draw in scents decacycles old and isolate them into separate strains, to be contrasted against an impressive databank of odors and textures he had recorded over his lifetime.

It was what qualified the lion for this task.

In comparison, Hound's own frame was outfitted with a wide array of mods that he'd collected. One such feature was his optics, stylized with refined magnification, infrared vision, and nocturnal lenses. Prior to the war, the green scout had nurtured a secret ambition of gaining access to the spacebridges that dotted the galaxy in hopes of exploring organic worlds. The thought of making planetfall on some uncharted world sent a thrill through his circuits like nothing ever could—not because he was interested in the scientific slag like Perceptor was. What called to him was the journey into the unknown, the trek through foreign terrains teeming with life that no optics had ever seen before. The danger, the adventure, the excitement—the stuff of sparkling recharge stories.

After the fall of the Golden Age, however, spacebridge maintenance had fallen into disarray, forcing spacefarers to rely solely on stellar ships equipped for long trips into the void. With the technology fell Hound's dream, a thought that made him sigh. Accompanying the bitter disappointment were several decacycles of sulking as he had deliberated what to do with the upgrades he had spent centuries—_fragging centuries!_—saving up for.

_One of the many benefits of this war, I suppose_, he mused in a grim sort of humor as he adjusted a gauntlet on his wrist. As the setting recalibrated he slanted a look toward the room. The necessity of gaining the upper hand had made Hound the perfect candidate for venturing into enemy territory—an apt candidate for both Special Ops and Search and Rescue. Overnight his precious exploration mods had been transformed into dark instruments of sabotage and recon.

A necessary sacrifice.

And while the forest-green mech certainly had no qualms about helping his faction, he still clung stubbornly to the hope of one day restoring his equipment to its former purpose.

His gear was what qualified him so well for the job laid out in front of him. His presence was also needed for a different reason: to keep their Third-in-Command from falling apart.

Jazz was shifting his weight between his pedes, gauging the darkened quarters with a hint of trepidation. Originally the saboteur had volunteered because, "I know what his quarters look like, so I can pick out anythin' if it's amiss." Though as he watched his superior deep breathe, Hound couldn't help but wonder why Jazz had lied his way into an investigation he was clearly unprepared for.

Once the scanners had finished booting Hound turned his full attention to his friend. The black-white mech was trembling faintly. One hand was digging into his arm. Meanwhile, Jazz's helm was bowed. An unintelligible mutter left him, and at that Hound paused in his actions. By the sounds of it, Jazz was giving himself a pep-talk.

Unable to help himself, the green tracker reached out a hand, resting it on Jazz's shoulder and effectively stopping his tremors. Hierarchy be damned, just because this was an official assignment didn't mean that he couldn't comfort his superior!

However, the contact seemed to put his friend's mind to a certain decision. Steeling himself, the Third-in-Command lifted his chin ever so slightly, mouthplates going into a tight line. His shoulder blades rolled free of Hound's touch, gentle yet firm. With his Special Ops mask firmly in place, he took a few steps forward and advanced into Prowl's quarters, but not before his EMF reached out to Hound's. Their spark resonances brushed, a non-lingering feel that said more than words ever could:

_Thank you_.

Hound gave a brief nod. With a last exhale the green mech gathered his courage and entered the room. No sooner had the door slid shut behind him did a brilliant blue visor illuminate the gloom, along with a pair of slanted optics nearly ground-level. As he moved about the space, something caught him around the ankle, nearly sending Hound stumbling.

"Lights on," the saboteur rasped from somewhere nearby, and at once the room brightened. Instinctively Hound filtered his optics to a setting more compatible with the brightness, and as his vision adjusted, he found himself confused by his surroundings.

This wasn't what he had been expecting.

Whatever misconceptions he'd held about the SIC were disproved as he gazed about the wreckage. Datapads were strewn across the floor, some with cracked screens, others neglected in the corner or under furniture. Two or three cubes also littered the ground, one with a sickly blue-pink slime oozing out of the corner of the shattered glass. Aside from the paperwork recklessly tossed about the room, a nearby filing cabinet had one of its drawers ajar. The extra work desk that had apparently migrated into Prowl's room over time had gouges in the metal in the shape of claws and digits.

"Damn," Jazz swore, loudly and shakily, jolting Hound out of his daze. Glass and metal crunched beneath his pedes as the Special Ops officer knelt next to the desk legs. "What th' slag is all of this?"

_If you wanted my guess, I'd say that Prowl has been severely unhinged for some time_, Steeljaw offered from the nearby berth. Unsheathed claws scratched the floor as the symbiote jumped down. _Not meaning any offense, but metaphorically speaking, his room is as unstable as his mind_.

Hound's shoulders slumped a fraction. "No offense taken, 'Jaw," he reassured the lion, before Jazz could get any words out. As his trained optic took inventory of the wreckage, he felt his spark sink in dismay. _Where to begin…?_

"Well?" When Jazz flashed a distracted look in his direction, he prompted, not unkindly, "What do you want us to do?"

For a klik the black-and-white mech merely stared back, obviously lost in his thoughts. Just as Hound decided to repeat his question Jazz snapped back to reality. Gears whirred as he rose from his crouch, servos firmly rested over his hipjoints as he surveyed the quarters. Some obscure emotion flickered across his visor, too brief for the emerald 'bot to identify. Briskly Jazz ordered, "You an' I are gonna divide th' room between us. Start by takin' pictures; touch nothing until you've got it all mapped out. Once you've got them saved on a secure file, comb through everything. Look at th' contents of each datapad, an' mark it. Especially anything that don' belong. I want t' collect them for further analysis on a later date."

Beneath the professional demeanor Hound thought he heard a faint waver.

_What exactly classifies as out-of-place in this context?_ inquired Steeljaw. The platinum-gold feline curled his lips at the aged contents of a spilled Energon cube. Voicing what Hound had already thought, Steeljaw continued, _This entire room looks like it doesn't belong. Are you sure these aren't someone else's quarters, and we walked in by mistake?_

Jazz's stare hardened. "My best friend has been livin' in here for vorns. Trust me; it's his. Which reminds me…Steeljaw, I want ya t' scan th' room for paint samples, armor chips, perhaps chemical spills. Doesn't matter. Jus' keep an ear an' optic open."

_Tall order_, remarked the lion under his breath. With a polite dip of his muzzle, he acknowledged, _Very well_, and started bobbing his maned helm along the floor. _Well, you ought to know right off the bat that someone has been in here recently. Within the last seven days, if I had to hazard a guess_.

"What?" Hound swung his head sharply in the symbiote's direction. "How can you tell?"

Once sure that he had both Autobots' undivided attention, Steeljaw proceeded to prod the debris with an outstretched paw. _Cybertronian respiratory systems, as you well know, are designed to cycle air in order to regulate internal temperatures. Airborne particles like dust also are constantly filtered through our vents. When a space has been unoccupied for some time, the air stagnates and the dust settles due to a lack of circulation_. To demonstrate his point, he gestured toward a filmy layer of grime settled across the nearest upturned chair. _However_—bunching his hindlegs, the cat sprang onto the computer terminal atop the desk—_if you look here, you'll see that the keyboard is spot-free. Disturbed. Meaning_…

"Meaning that someone's been in here while Prowl took his team to Kaon," the tracker concluded darkly. He aimed his furrowed brow in Jazz's direction. "Did anyone else know Prowl's password?"

Between gritted denta the black-and-white growled, "No. He changed his PIN every decacycle, an' always right before he went out on missions. No one 'cept for Prime an' th' Security Director had access to th' entry codes for th' barracks. Mech was always meticulous 'bout that sort of slag; I mean, Pit, I wasn't even…"

With a choked noise in the back of his throat he trailed off.

Needless to say, Hound got the gist. "Well," the scout gathered, "perhaps we should see what was of such interest to our interloper." Although having a course of action helped give him a direction to go in, it did little to settle the churning feeling in his tanks. If someone had recently seen the overwhelming evidence of Prowl's mental instability, then why didn't the 'bot come forward and say something? Anyone who took one glance at the wreck could tell that something was clearly off, and while suicide wasn't at the top of that list, the uncharacteristic throw-about certainly warranted an investigation.

_If the intruder had reported this orns ago, could Prowl's suicide attempt have been prevented?_

No point in dwelling on the what-ifs. They still had a job to do.

So, it was with moderate difficulty that Hound tore himself away from those disturbing thoughts and carefully circled around the desk. Despite the careful measures he took to sidestep the mess, scattered steel and shards warped and crunched underfoot. All of the additional sounds of breaking sent a thrill through his neural net, like the extra noise was forbidden by some unspoken law. It only seemed to heighten their purpose, their reason for being here.

Steeljaw made himself scarce, leaping onto the nearest wall-mounted shelf behind the terminal as Jazz settled into the desk chair. Hound studied the translucent screen, which booted up at the visored mech's touch. He inwardly prepared himself for the tediously long amount of time needed for code breaking, but was just as surprised as his companions to find the computer's documents already displayed on the screen. Whoever had last used the machine obviously didn't expect anyone else to come snooping.

_Or didn't care_, his CPU helpfully supplied.

Together, the trio peered closer.

Displayed on the screen were several recent monetary transactions. All of them showed huge sums of credits recently transferred to other accounts—Smokescreen's, the Autobots' collective funds—with a significant decrease in Prowl's. According to the banking statement at the bottom of the screen, the tactician's account had been completely drained, and by none other than himself.

For several moments, no one spoke.

"I—" At first, Jazz's words were so static-laden that Hound could barely make out anything intelligible. Forcibly the TIC swallowed, causing the tightened cables in his throat to seize. "I don' get it. Why would he go an' flush his savings like that?"

_Perhaps_, said Steeljaw, in a delicate murmur, _Ratchet's previous theory about Prowl's self-deactivation being spontaneous was incorrect? _

Jazz glanced over his broad shoulders and fixed the little lion beneath his caustic gaze. "Are ya suggestin' that it was _premeditated?_"

Simultaneously rising to the symbiote's defense and trying to calm his friend, Hound held up his servos, palms out. "Any speculation at this point is fair game. We _don't know_, Jazz. He's been hiding this well for some time. Unless Prowl comes forward and says it, then we've got to consider the evidence. I mean, why else would he transfer his credits if he wasn't planning on—"

"Alright, alright!" the Third snapped. "I get it." Abruptly he pushed the chair back and rose. "I'm gonna start seein' what's on those slates."

Without another word he stalked across the room and started to scrounge amongst the datapads.

Momentarily the golden Autobot swapped a pitying look with Hound. Likewise Steeljaw hopped to the floor and set about the task of cataloging his finds.

Resignation and despair weighed down on the tracker's spark as he set to photographing the opposite side of the ruined quarters. Even as his hands stayed occupied with sorting through the various possessions, his processor betrayed him. It strayed back to the owner of the items that he was now rummaging through as if they were part of a clearance bin.

Prowl.

While Hound had never been particularly close to his superior officer, he respected Prowl. The doorwinger was polite, attentive, and honest, always seeking the most efficient option that had the lowest probability for failure. While they weren't the best of chums, Hound liked him well enough. Unfortunately, that lack of friendship many claimed was forged by Prowl's general lack of common ground shared with the ranks. Never mind how his personality traits lent themselves badly to his strict reputation. Like the socialite he was, Hound was guilty of having contributed to the rumors about their Second-in-Command, be it during shifts or while chatting amicably with his peers in the rec room. Most of the rumors were exaggeration, aided by Prowl's cloistered personality.

Now joining those cruel rumors was the debate of who was to blame for all of this.

_Blame_.

Was that all they cared about?

Truth be told, he didn't know who caused it. Only that lately so many pinned the blame to Prowl's antisocial tendencies. Everyone said he was obsessive and withdrawn. Cold-sparked. Unfeeling.

But now, as Hound dug through glass splinters and broken memories, he found himself reconsidering. Maybe that was the only way their Second-in-Command knew how to show passion and devotion for his work.

And wasn't he just as passionate about the things he loved?

A deep pang of guilt struck him.

The possessions scattered about the room belonged to a mech he had never bothered to get to know. Would he even have that opportunity again?

"I found something!"

Seconds later Hound was on his feet and hastening to Jazz's side. As the green Cybertronian settled next to him his optics strayed toward the datapad in Jazz's hands. Words were typed across the screen, with the Autobot symbol placed at the bottom of the margin.

Slowly, Jazz rasped, "It's a letter. Look."

Hound looked.

_To the family of the deceased:_

_We regret to inform you that Autobot Javelin was killed on the morning of_

Following that was an empty space where the incomplete letter ended. Below was a list of names. With a sickening lurch the tracker recognized them as the designations of the mechs and femmes who had perished on the failed mission to Kaon not even five days ago.

_Burnout, Hawkeye, Torque, Rivet, Magnet Rise, Pressure Point, Backlash, Quartz, Compass _

Unable to go on looking, Hound tore his optics away. A full-body shudder followed.

"Th' timestamp is late," the saboteur murmured. Armor shifted as he settled from a kneel to a crouch. "Prowl was supposed t' have these filled out an' sent right after th' debriefin'. Guess he never got around t' it." A low noise left the back of his throat as he reached for another datapad on the ground. "Got this, too. It's a list of th' upcomin' operations for th' next few decacycles. But that ain't what caught my optic. It's what Prowl put in th' margin—bunch of rhetoric, as far as I can tell."

True to his words, as Hound accepted and read over the mission statements, he found in Prowl's tidy scrawl additional information. Statistics. Percentages. Probabilities. All of them detailing the failure rate for each team being sent out. Coupled with the data were equations and frantically-written footnotes, with at least dozens of alterations made to the upcoming missions, each one aimed at trying to reduce those odds. Judging by the angry scribble made by the stylus, Prowl had no success.

Finally Hound handed it back to Jazz, who immediately subspaced the evidence. No words were needed to describe the obvious. Feeling a tad more helpless than before, the green mech rose and crossed back over to his side of the room, where he resumed moving amongst the overturned clutter. While some of the datapads were blank, one or two matched Jazz's earlier find, with more statistics about Energon regulation and casualty amounts from the medbay.

As he lifted his helm to suggest that they regroup, a metallic glint caught his eye. Hidden in the shadowy recesses of the room, the shiny object was barely noticeable from where it poked out of the rim of the waste receptacle. After a brief stall he moved across the room toward it.

Deft hands dug into the trash bin and extracted what looked like several chunks of fractured gold. Surprise coursed through Hound as he turned the broken lumps over in his hands. Gold, while not as rare as Cybertanium, wasn't exactly an abundant resource on their planet. So what was it doing chucked in the trash?

_What exactly is this supposed to be, anyway?_ he mused. Several sides of the ore were smooth and expertly crafted, as if they had a distinct purpose. Yet as the tracker studied the unnatural cuts on the gold, he couldn't place any sort of function to them.

That was, until his thumb brushed over one of the smooth sides and found an indentation.

Spark thudding, he hastily turned the mineral over and peered keenly at it. Engraved into its surface were several Cybertronian glyphs, cut off from where the gold had obviously broken apart:

—_in recognition of an outstanding act of_—

Understanding dawned.

Adrenaline pounded through his fuel lines, numbing him. As if his hands had a mind of their own, Hound set to work, barely able to control the shaking racing down his arms as the golden chunks were placed on the ground. Like a puzzle, piece by piece he arranged them until the fracture lines fit together, forming ugly scars against the once pristine and immaculate surface. Within seconds the pieces were refitted on the flat floor into a pentagram star. The words on the individual pieces at last came together:

_The Praxian Department of Security Response  
>proudly presents this award to<br>Enforcer Prowl  
>in recognition of an outstanding act of bravery<br>with no regard to self or personal safety,  
>with great individual courage,<br>and with absolute devotion  
>that went beyond the call of duty<em>

Awed, he could only rock back on his heels and stare.

Klik by klik, the realization began to set in. As it did—as his so very undeserving, unworthy hand reached out and touched the award—something inside Hound refused to accept what he was seeing. The tracker's mouth worked to form something other than white noise and static, struggled to piece his disbelief together.

_Why would he throw something like this away?_

Just as the words bubbled up from his throat, Steeljaw materialized in front of the small entryway connecting Prowl's main quarters to his private washracks.

_Jazz, Hound_, the lion called. His tail twitched. _You need to see this_.

With a dreamlike slowness Jazz obeyed and entered the side room. A second alter a low, ominous keen ricocheted off the walls. Fear had his pedes grudgingly, unwilling moving across the space to where Steeljaw sat guard outside of the private washroom. He didn't even bother trying to brace himself for what he might find.

And as Hound bounded into the room and stopped, he realized how fruitless it would have been.

Pools of sickly blue, green-tinged Energon coated the tiled floor beneath the spigot where it hadn't yet seeped through the drain. Merged with the more recent spatter of foul fluids were dried stains of bright sapphire Energon. Below the nozzle embedded in the wall was a shallow slash mark, likely made by some sort of—

His spark skipped a beat.

_By some sort of blade_.

Jazz was bracing his weight against the tiled wall with one hand, evidently finding it hard to support himself, even for appearance's sake. Light flashed with laser-point brightness, as if the processor behind the visor was working overtime to keep up with the onslaught of information.

_Vomit_, announced Steeljaw. His jaws parted as he prowled toward the edge of the spill and sniffed. With each inhale the pore-like sensors beneath his muzzle gave a weak illumination. _Color and composition give it away. Raw Energon that's consumed is denser because the tanks haven't broken it down yet. It's thicker and takes longer to dissipate, hence why_… His lips curled at the rancid odor wafting up from the spill. _Hence why it's still here, even all these orns later_.

Nausea wreaked havoc on his frame. "Does that mean he's been intentionally purging?" Hound asked, while at the same time backing away a few feet from the vile.

"No." The single syllable sounded stripped of all emotion. "Ratchet said…Ratchet said that Prowl hasn't been refuelin' for a while. His body probably started t' cannibalize th' internals. More'n likely, every time he tried t' eat, his systems rejected th' Energon 'cause he was so malnourished." As Jazz trailed off, his servo went to the wall, tracing one of the dried azure tarnishes.

"So he's been coming in here to—to puke?" Unbidden, the mental image of Prowl hunched over in the stall and retching into the drains crossed Hound's mind. It sickened him.

Steeljaw shuffled his paws. _If my scans are reading correctly, that isn't all that he did in here_.

Neither mech asked him to elaborate, so the cassette continued, his vocalizer tinged with something more than his usual aloof personality: _The lighter blue stains aren't from his tanks_.

Ice ran through his pumps at the lion's next words:

_They're from his fuel lines_.

Jazz was running from the room before the final word had slipped from Steeljaw's lips.

Acting on his years of training, Hound whirled around and darted out of the washracks, the symbiote hard on his heels. Upon reentering the main quarters they found Jazz on the floor, his upper torso wedged beneath the tactician's berth. His frame stretched, joints popping and twisting as he reached deeper under the ironwrought frame.

_What are you doing?_ Steeljaw exclaimed.

Instead of replying, the saboteur dug deeper under the berth, his systems straining from the exertion. When the lion made to repeat his question, he was cut off by Jazz's barely-intelligible grunt: "…it's in here…no other place that bastard would hide it…"

Armor expanded and heaved one last time before the Third backed out, cycling air hard. Following his helm as it cleared the underside was a padlocked titanium box.

The lion inched closer to Hound and emitted a deep growl.

_And that is?_ Steeljaw inquired warily.

Jazz clenched his jaw. "A safe. _His_ safe." Skilled hands that had disarmed dozens of bombs flitted over the keypad. Knowing Prowl, the encryption would probably be difficult to hack. Hound was already anticipating several possible algorithms to test against the lock. But before he could speak the black-and-white mech had already typed in a password. His vents refused to circulate as he watched the safe.

Waiting.

A pneumatic hiss creaked out from the lock. Like the room, the safe seemed reluctant to cough up whatever it was hiding beneath its chrome-colored surface. One by one the locking mechanisms released, each harsh click unnaturally loud in the silent room. At last, the crease along the lid gave a parting click and the box ticked open by a wire's breadth.

Oddly enough, Hound felt calm. His faceplates shifted into a neutral frown. Casting a sideways glance at Jazz, he murmured, "You already knew the combination, didn't you."

It wasn't a question.

When Jazz tried to exhale, his vents hitched, like something was caught in the gears. "_T' serve an' protect_. Old Enforcer motto." Black fingers reached out, shaking so violently that for a heartbeat the TIC almost didn't manage to grasp the lid. With the way he was tensing one would think that the world was coming to an end.

For Jazz, it probably was.

The need to do something overwhelmed Hound. On impulse his hand shot out, wrapping around the saboteur's wrist. Once his friend's hands stilled, softly, the tracker asked, "Do ya want me to…?"

A firm nod no. "Don' matter who does. Gotta know if it's in here…"

Just as Steeljaw demanded, _What exactly is "it"?_ Jazz curled his digits around the rim and opened the safe.

It wasn't empty.

Lying atop several holoframe photos was the wicked rim of a blade. Slickened across the handle and razor's edge was a crusted, dark blue-black film of dried Energon. The item Prowl had utilized before to carve up his own protoform.

Cybertronians, technically speaking, couldn't suffocate. They weren't dependent on oxygen. They didn't have to breathe. Yet as Hound peered down at the sinister-looking weapon, it felt like a heavy pressure was crushing his chest.

Neither mech nor the symbiote moved. Hysteria was closing its fangs tighter around the group the longer they took in the blade and everything it stood for. Desperate to escape the panic he was sure one of them was about to descend into, Hound took charge.

"Tungsten carbide," the tracker observed as he gingerly plucked the blade out of the safe. Even in his handling he fought the urge to cringe, to toss it across the room, to blast it until it was nothing more than a pile of molten slag—as if by destroying it, the dark history behind it would vanish, too. Flakes of dried Energon—_Prowl's_ Energon—peeled off the metal and settled onto his hand and the floor. Biting back the gag he could feel forming, Hound wasted no time in subspacing it. "This isn't a custom blade. More than likely it belongs in the armory. Ironhide's probably looking for it."

_Don't you need to fill out a form to obtain supplies that valuable?_ Steeljaw pointed out. Back and forth his tail lashed, hackles raised as he glared.

His frown hitched farther down on his face. "Not officers. So long as they know the access code, they can take whatever they want, as long as it's returned."

None too subtly the lion remarked, _Perhaps someone should look into changing that_. With a snort Steeljaw shook his mane and began pacing toward the door_. I don't know about either of you, but I think we got what we came for. Unless there is a valid reason why we should persist here a moment longer, then I want to leave_. His deceptive stretch barely masked the tremor than traveled down the length of his spine. _I…I think I'll take Blaster up on his offer, and listen to that download he acquired the other night_. Not bothering to wait for their responses, he bounded out of the room.

Watching the sleek symbiote leave, he was reminded of how even more stoic personalities like Steeljaw's suffered the slings and arrows, too, even if they didn't always show it. With a final scan of the grim quarters Hound relented: "'Jaw's right. We did our job. Let's go."

It was only after he took four steps did he realize that Jazz hadn't moved.

Puzzled as to what had his friend stalling, the forest-green scout backtracked. Only the backside of the black-and-white's helm and spine were visible to him. Legs firmly tucked beneath him, Jazz continued to kneel in front of the safe. Curious as to what had his attention, the tracker crouched down behind him and peered over his shoulder.

Held tightly within his viselike grip was a holoframe, unburied from the recesses of the safe. Gazing up from the portrait was a group of mechs, crowded in front of a large stadium from the outside. Behind the group was a brilliant blend of rich, pristine starry sky, and vibrant neon lights from the building in the background. While a paint-flecked crowd jostled in the back of the picture, two black-and-white mechs occupied the front, their armor colors reversed. The visored 'bot had an arm slung around his friend's shoulder, beaming at the camera like he was king of the world. His companion—not so much. The doorwinger was slumped over a little, though he managed to give the photographer a frown that wasn't as disgruntled-looking as Hound imagined it would be.

"Th' first an'_ last_ concert Prowl ever agreed t' go to with me," Jazz explained. The sentence came out as a whisper, as if he was afraid that speaking too loudly would disturb the 'bots in the picture. "Th' band was a group called Nebula Five. Nice blend of genres. We got good seats; front row, as a matter of fact. It was all instrumental music. We chose them specifically because Prowl said he couldn't stand 'those uncouth two-piston screamers' that I liked t' hear. He said that he didn't like th' concert, 'cause they weren't t' his taste. But th' next day I caught him hummin' along t' one of their songs while he was filin' paperwork."

Not sure how to respond to that, Hound said nothing.

The saboteur huffed out a deep sigh that caught halfway through, turning into a dry sob. "He's one of my best friends, Hound. People always say, 'Why do ya put up with him? He's an aft,' but that's 'cause they don't know him. All they ever see is a rule book an' a one-way ticket t' th' brig. But no one ever bothered t' see beyond th' chevron. No one _knew him_." The conviction in his words was accompanied by a squeeze so hard that he nearly cracked the holoframe. "An' no 'bot ever had a better friend than him."

"He'll be alright," soothed Hound, not really sure what else to say. He only hoped that the monochromatic mech wouldn't see how little faith he placed in his own words. "You're a good friend to him. Prowl's lucky to have you."

Without warning Jazz's head whipped around. All of the agonized hurt and trauma burned through the glass, so powerful that Hound could feel his gaze like a physical blow. When he at last spoke, his voice was_ saturated_ with self-loathing. "I ain't a good friend if I let him try t' kill himself. And Prowl would have been better off if we had never met."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: Something that I remembered while reading Ghost of the Dawn's comments is that my story, strictly speaking, isn't entirely G1. Most of its influences are borrowed from G1, but some of the characters' designs, plot points, and backstories are either from other continuities or are my own twisted ideas. G1 just seemed like the best heading at the time. So I'll probably need to go back and repost this as "G1 AU."

Another thing: If you think that there's something that can be done to improve the story, don't hesitate to point out mistakes! I won't be offended if you give me a little nudge and say, "Hey, Alex, there's a typo in paragraph four…" or "You might want to change the wording here, it reads a bit awkwardly." I also know that I have a tendency to be long-winded, sadly. I've been told that by more than one person, so letting me know will help me break that bad habit! c:

Coming up next: _Chapter Six: Friction_


	6. Friction

**Warnings**: Swearing, ideological topics, violence, briefly mentioned further attempts at suicide.  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: Me no own. Ever.  
><strong>Rating<strong>: M**  
><strong>

**Summary**: The time comes to formally address the issue, and even the commanders fine themselves conflicted over the right course of action. Some more than others.

**Author's Note**: What's this? An update? I bet no one saw this coming. Especially with my college finals EATING UP MY LIFE. I was hit with a sudden burst of inspiration and had to get these ideas down before they escaped. So, now you guys have yet another chapter. But dear God, I'm tired. I need to go sleep. Like, forever.

A thank you goes to** Starfire201**, **Fianna9**, **Richard'sQueen aka LGFS**, **Sideslip**, **renegadewriter8**, **Shizuka** **Taiyou**, **steelcrash**, **Fliara48**, **Birdiebot**, **DemonSurfer**, **Guest**, **Deathcomes4u**, and **FractaUmbra** for reviewing the last chapter and giving such heartfelt feedback. I can't stress how great you all are for the support and sincerity, especially in relating to similar events in your own lives. It really makes me feel like I've established that connection with others and done my job in reaching out to the world. And OH GOD I'm getting all _mushy_ on you people. D: You certainly don't need me to pile on to the angst when this fic is already one tragedy short of a Shakespearean play.

I couldn't help but notice that quite a few of you were wondering who it was that broke into Prowl's room. I won't give you any hints, but I will say this: the 'bot who did it will surprise you. I'll be actually shocked if someone guesses right.

* * *

><p>Chapter Six: <strong>Friction<strong>

"_Standing in the middle of the road is very dangerous; you get knocked down by the traffic from both sides._"

— Margaret Thatcher

* * *

><p>Another screech came from beyond the force field, followed by the char of ozone.<p>

In an almost bored fashion Kup glanced up at the brig cell and set aside the datapad on his knee. "You may as well give it up. You aren't getting out of there anytime soon."

With an irritated snarl Ravage whirled around and resumed pacing the length of his cell, now limping on the paw that had been shocked by the high voltage of the force field. Gradually his pace slowed, yet it was still possible to hear the ultrasonic growl rumbling from deep within the cat's throat. Only when he finally settled in the corner did Kup sink back into his chair with a sigh.

Brig detail was, by far, the least desirable job on the roster. In theory it was simple―guard the prisoner and make sure that they remain in their cell unless specified otherwise. In practice it was mundane, especially when the only occupant in the room was the jailor doing his rounds, or the prisoners did little more than sit on their bunk and glare at their warden. At other times the task, in the case of high-security prisoners, was dangerous. Many a 'con and rogue Neutral had occupied those holding cells, some in the past having managed to escape by finding gaps in the firewall or attacking the 'bot on guard duty when it was time to give the prisoners their Energon. While the incidents were far and few in between, the rumor mill made sure that all 'bots gave the job the precursory fifty yard safety distance it deserved for fear of being roped in.

Today the job was simply boring.

Now with his desire to read having dissipated, Kup ignored the datapad that he had brought along in favor of watching the captive.

Brilliant amber optics were fixed on his claws as Ravage flexed them, seemingly unbothered by the Autobot's sudden interest. Tail flicking to and fro, he curled more snugly into a crescent shape and parted his jaws in an idle yawn.

Kup wasn't fooled.

Beneath the façade was a trained assassin, a killing machine whose focus never wavered, as evident on the day of his capture. Not even an orn after the infiltration team had departed for Kaon they found the black cassette gigabytes-deep into Teletraan. Klaxons had gone off around the base as the frantic hunt for the panther began. To add on to the pandemonium, Ravage had infiltrated the electrical system, bypassing the firewalls for the generators and plunging nearly half of Iacon into darkness. His escape was finally put to end when the minibots ambushed him during the blackout through the ever-reliable "dogpile him until he can't move" method.

Not exactly what you'd call the most practical maneuver, but it had worked.

Inferno had been unbearably smug about the whole ordeal as well, given that the symbiote had been the reason why he had spent several days in the ICU, left in Rachet's _gentle_ care. It went without saying that baiting Ravage hadn't been a bright idea, as he had finally reached his limit with the taunts and made a second attempt to fight. Chaos ensued.

Eleven orns and five interrogation sessions later and here they were, one agitated symbiote and one grizzled mech both waiting for the monotony to break.

It certainly didn't help that the Autobots had absolutely no idea what information Ravage had been after, or what he had managed to download from the mainframe before he'd been discovered. Any attempts to pry open the panther's CPU had been rendered fruitless by his upgraded anti-malware programs. With there literally being nothing to extract from him he was just another mouth to feed, another drain on their already-low resources.

It made Kup resent the symbiote all the more.

As if Ravage could tell what he was thinking he swung his helm in Kup's direction. Almost condescendingly he stretched out and drew his paw along the interface panel on his chest.

Fragging cassette.

"I'd get that look off your face," Kup growled. "You and I both know that information is as good as useless to you until your master gets you back."

Ravage returned the throaty growl, lips curled as his glare focused on him with laser point intensity. Even the cassette knew when to concede to being wrong, no matter how much it must have pained him to admit to his failure―something that Kup relished in his enemy. The bitter taste of defeat.

If there was one thing the Autobots got out of their prisoner, it was a bargaining chip.

Rare was the orn that the stealthiest of Soundwave's minions got captured, a fact that didn't escape the Communication Master's attention. Within joors of Ravage's detainment a transmission from Soundwave was intercepted, an appeal to trade the symbiote in exchange for something that the Autobots would want. Right now negotiations were underway, and with each barter made the tension between the two factions escalated. The longer they waited to reach an agreement, the riskier the situation became. Who knew how long their mutual cooperation would last before Soundwave threw formalities to the wind and staked out the entire Decepticon army on their front lawn?

Of course, the chances were slim that Megatron would ever consent to such a thing. Yet Kup couldn't shake off his suspicions, long fostered by his experience with the unpredictable nature of war. Cybertronians with symbiotic frame-builds like Soundwave's grew restless the longer they were separated from their cassettes, and Ravage had been imprisoned for over a decacycle and a half now.

In his opinion that was one day too many.

His political reflections were abruptly derailed by his comm. line crackling to life: _Red Alert to Kup, do you copy?_

While certainly unexpected Kup nonetheless appreciated the distraction. It certainly beat trying to make conversation with the antisocial cat. He hailed the Security Director over the airwave. _What do you need, lad?_

_I've received word that Jazz's team finished their investigation. Optimus just sent out a Priority 1 request for all officers to report to the conference room_. There was a certain undercurrent to his voice that caught Kup off guard, an uncharacteristic emotion that contrasted magnificently with the officer's wary and paranoid persona. Anticipation? _While I attend the meeting I'll require someone to remain in the Hub and fill in my position. Seeing as you're already well versed in monitoring the cameras, I trust that you can take over in my absence?_

Not that it mattered. Seeing as how Kup was one of the _only_ mechs Red Alert would entrust the job to there really were no other options.

Joints popping, he rose to his feet and briskly rolled the muscle cables along his collar. Pausing to retrieve his datapad, the pale green mech harrumphed, _Aye. Give me a klik to stroll on down to the rec room and grab a cube. I'll find some slacker to cover my shift in the meanwhile._

_Thank you, Kup. It's nice to know that we still have_ some _reliable Autobots that can be trusted to do their job. _

At the drastically harsh tone Kup recoiled a little, taken aback by the barbed statement. Not quite sure what prompted that remark, the veteran pushed aside his faint bewilderment and steered their conversation in a new direction: _Has anyone heard about Prowl as of late?_

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say. If anything, Red Alert sounded even colder when he spoke. _That_, the Security Director sniffed, _is presumably something that Ratchet will no doubt mention during the conference_. _Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get going_. And just like that he terminated the communiqué.

For a long moment Kup stood there in front of the cell while the dark-colored Decepticon watched.

"Tch. How do you like that?" the celadon mech snorted. Grinding his denta together, he cast the black feline a cross look and folded his long arms across his chestplates. "Tell me; are your comrades as rude as mine? 'Cause if they're not I might just ask Prime to throw me into the bargain and go back with you."

If Ravage had a comment then he wisely kept it to himself.

Resignation filled the old warrior as he accessed the public communications channel. Feeling both offended and justly vindictive, Kup ran through a mental list of Autobots off-duty, eager to share his soured mood with the rest of the world. _Just who to assign to brig detail…?_ One highlighted name popped up on the schedule and Kup's expression turned decidedly sinister. Crooked grin on his face, he crooned across the airwave, _Oh, Hot Rod?_

Static fizzled and popped in his audio before Hot Rod answered: _Whatever it is, I didn't do it._

Kup checked a sigh. _You're not being accused of anything, dimwit_.

_Oh_.

_Unless there's something you'd like to fess up to?_

…_I think I'll pass_. The apprehension in Hot Rod's voice was replaced with a sullen expectation. _What do you want this time?_

Ah, the petty revenges were indeed the sweetest.

_It isn't what _I_ want this time_, Kup serenely assured him, enjoying himself immensely. If he was going to suffer through a bad day, then so was Hot Rod. _It's what _Red Alert_ wants_. _You've just been assigned to guard the prisoner_.

_Me?_ squawked Hot Rod. _Are you kidding? I just finished my shift! Make Springer do it or something._

_This isn't up for negotiation! Sorry, kid, not my call to make_. Not entirely, anyway. _And you lay off of him. Springer's got his hands full with overseeing the Wreckers while Magnus is away._

He could almost hear Hot Rod rolling his optics. _If Springer didn't want the additional workload then he shouldn't have accepted the promotion. Besides, I'm busy_.

Time to resort to his favorite persuasive technique: good ol' fashioned yelling. _Kid,_ _if I hear you complain one more time I'll give you something to really complain about. Now get your aft down here!_

It was the threat of additional work and increased volume that won Hot Rod over. Sulkily his charge relented, _Got it_, and signed off, but not before Kup heard him mutter something about fat, old muffler-suckers.

Mission accomplished. The aging Cybertronian disengaged his comm. line and spared Ravage a parting glance. "Alright, my replacement's on the way. He should keep you adequately entertained while I see to some additional duties. Have fun, you scraplet-bitten nuisance."

Instead of the familiar raised hackles or bared fangs Ravage merely leveled him a thoughtful look. Calculating. Narrowed optics kept their gaze trained on Kup as he did one last sweep of the brig, double-checking his post for anything that he might have forgotten or neglected during his shift. The entire time he felt the intensity of the symbiote's gaze against his plating like the heat of sunlight, unrelenting. While Ravage couldn't have possibly overheard his conversations, there was something about the way the silent Decepticon watched that put Kup's instincts on edge.

Ravage might have been the one in the cage but by no means was he the prisoner.

Suddenly eager to be out of the symbiote's presence, Kup frowned at him once before turning on his heel to leave. Only once he stood outside did he release a breath that he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Outside of the brig the usual stream of femmes and mechs awaited him, moving about from place to place. Thanks to the ex-drill sergeant's height Kup was able to cut through the throng with relative ease, limping calmly if not quickly by his comrades as they went about their separate tasks. Without the distraction of his work the old warrior's thoughts shifted and settled, falling back into their regular patterns. Pressing questions took precedence over the thoughts of his current obligation, and as Kup was want to do he permitted them, letting his mind return to Red Alert's earlier reaction. Old habits died hard, and as a former commander the interactions between his crew weighed heavily upon him, causing the frown on his aged face to be etched deeper. Like Prime, he still answered to the oldest of those military codes, the ones where emphasis fell on the wellbeing of the soldiers that he was tasked with keeping alive, on the battlefield and on the home front. So he chose to address the strife displayed by Red Alert, and through extension the rest of Iacon.

That there was emotional tension was obvious. Even now Kup's attuned senses felt it, were trained from eons of practice to know what to look for in the sea of faceplates moving about: Optics shuttering increasingly more often. Weight shifting between pedes. Armor clamped tight to their frames. Fists clenched and arms tucked close to the frame. Gazes avoided or downcast, unengaged in the world around them to attend to whatever thoughts clouded their minds. They were all the prevalent signs of individuals consumed by stress, doubt, anger, confusion, and fear, and the more Kup observed, the more he understood. No need to scan their EM fields when their bodies were laying bare all of the details.

Stress was infectious. It rippled outward from its source, affecting everything that it came into contact with, bleeding through the ranks like wildfire.

Red Alert was no more impervious than they were to the events of the last few decacycles: the fatalities, the stricter regulations regarding trade and cargo, the loss of a major outpost and Energon exporter, Ravage's solo expedition into the base…

And Prowl.

Primus, did Kup feel bad about that, even if he'd kept his thoughts to himself on the matter.

Suicide in Cybertronian culture was pretty uncommon, even now―unless you were counting the twins, who were so reckless in battle that Kup wouldn't have been surprised if they one day decided to run into a fight with bombs strapped their chests, stamped with a Wheeljack seal-of-approval.

Death, the end result of taking one's own life, was a concept that many Cybertronians still struggled to cope with, especially with the war. It was alien, foreign to them. As a race whose longevity made them gods amongst the rest of the universe, they had little experience with dying. With change. Frames could always be repaired. Malfunctioning parts could be replaced. In most cases, as long as the spark was intact, then a 'bot was virtually capable of living forever. Civil war was a cruel wake-up call for their world, because it clearly illustrated that even immortals could die. And that, more than anything else, was what truly made so many Cybertronians afraid of death. For the first time, those who hadn't already been affected by it realized that it applied to them.

He would know all of that. He had been around when that mindset was at its height, just before the decline of Sentinel's rule.

Perhaps that explained why so few could fathom the SIC's actions. What could possibly be influential enough―powerful enough―to bypass that instinct deep in their cores to avoid death at all costs?

Of course, all of them made an exception to that rule by consciously choosing to participate in fights that they might not walk away from. But then again, Kup mused, they were fighting _to live_. None of them went into battles intending to be gunned down. But Prowl? He might as well have walked into a firefight unarmed, that was how insane his suicide attempt looked by comparison.

Whether Red Alert's newfound hostility was born from that common ignorance or some other reason, Kup honestly couldn't say. Personally, he didn't understand the motives behind it either, although he certainly felt no anger toward the tactician. Only toward himself for the hideous oversight.

_If I was always so skilled at reading body language, then why didn't I act when I saw all the signs?_

Simple: Because like everyone else, Kup had believed that no one would choose death over life.

How wrong he was.

A long exhale left him as the ancient warrior limped into the rec room. What little good humor he'd garnered from torturing his apprentice had evaporated. Like the rest of them, he was infected by the stress, corrupted by the tension, tainted by the insecurity and overwhelming emotions that thickened the air like smoke.

It was suffocating.

Trying to shake off the ill thoughts clinging to his frame, Kup padded toward the dispenser along the wall of the spacious room. He shifted his focus from his musings to the area's other occupants, soaking up his surroundings while he busied himself with filling up a cube. Like always the pale green mech did a headcount of the Autobots present, well-meaning optics assessing each and every one of his comrades present…

…and whatever hope he'd held for a quiet, uneventful day was abruptly shattered.

At the center of the rec room Blaster was sitting on one of the larger sofas, long legs folded on the cushion. Odd that the Communications Expert hadn't yet left for the meeting. Though perhaps that could be explained by the mountain of symbiotes quite firmly sprawled over him, determined that he not get up.

The heavyset bulwark of Ramhorn was tucked securely under Blaster's right arm, one optic cracked open as the rhino nestled against his master's side. For once the normally disgruntled symbiote seemed content to cuddle rather than isolate himself from the mainstream going-ons around the base. Perched on the armrest closest to the orange mech was Eject. Arms were slung back behind his helm as the blue cassette tapped a foot against the furniture in time to the heavy percussion pouring out of Blaster's stereo. Cradled in the center of Blaster's lap was Steeljaw. In a rare display of public affection the lion allowed himself to be scratched behind the ear as he contributed his own soundtrack, a steady purr, to the obnoxiously loud song.

It wasn't the unusual bonding session that was causing the problem, however.

It was Rewind.

"Did you know," the black little mech piped up from the floor, "that in half of all reported cases suicide was committed with a firearm?"

"Huh." Blaster paused mid-stroke along Steeljaw's back to give Rewind a quick, if not tight smile. "You don't say."

Unintentionally encouraged by the officer's words, Rewind nodded his enthusiasm. "Yes, quite. I also learned that during the post-Golden Age era there were an estimated one hundred suicide-attempt survivors. I guess we can now verify that statistic." He waved the datapad in his hand to refer to whatever source he was getting his information from.

Briefly Blaster lifted his head, his sculpted face taking stock of the scalding glares and uncomfortable expressions shot in their direction. While obviously aware of the reactions around him he did nothing to dissuade the garrulous cassette. Clearing his intakes, the bright orange mech bent forward―careful not to dislodge Steeljaw―and gave Rewind a light pat on the head. "Good work, Rewind. Why don't you see what else you can dig up?"

For the second time that day Kup found himself too dumbstruck to react.

Amongst the many problems the veteran had anticipated as a result of Prowl's actions, an overly-talkative symbiote was not one of them. Clearly Rewind wasn't doing it to rile up his unwilling audience, even as he spouted out numbers and statistics to a room full of soldiers who looked as if they wished one of the Dinobots would come along and "accidentally" step on him. It was an idiosyncrasy that Kup likened to Bluestreak―neither knew when to keep their mouth shut, especially when their input wasn't wanted. No rules were being broken, yet the widespread discomfort made it obvious that something needed to be done before things got out of hand. And judging by the fidgeting and hostile looks, it needed to be done now.

As Kup set down his cube next to the dispenser he considered the matter carefully. How to diffuse the situation without offending either party? One option would be to ask Blaster to leave and head to the fragging meeting already, _like he was supposed to_. The only problem was that he'd cause a scene and possibly offend the Communications Expert and his little posse. And despite his opinions about how inappropriate Rewind was being, there wasn't a part of the old mech that wanted to stir up more bad feelings that was necessary.

That, and Kup really didn't have the authority to order the group to leave. Technically speaking, Blaster outranked him. Once Kup _had _been an officer in the Security Department, and a damn good one at that. That was, until over the course of many vorns he came to recognize that there were new subordinates rising through the ranks, sharp-minded and just as much deserving of the position as he had once been. Red Alert had been one of those individuals. And so one day he had finally strolled into the Prime's office and quite literally shoved his resignation form down Optimus' throat, telling him that it was time for him to grow a spine and just replace him with someone already. Now the ancient mech served as an advisor to the brass, and a mentor to the new recruits whom he could impress upon with his vast wealth of experience and help in their training.

Though in Kup's opinion, Hot Rod needed help that went beyond his pay grade. In their time together the only thing he'd been able to impress upon the brash idiot was how to fast talk his way out of an argument.

Lips pursed, the celadon mech crossed his arms and scowled. _Now, how to get Rewind to stop…?_

Unfortunately, someone else had beaten him to the punch.

"Blaster!" Cliffjumper snapped. The red minibot slapped the cube he'd been about to polish off onto the table, and the rec room went deathly quiet. "Can't you shut him up? No one wants to hear that slag!"

All four of the symbiotes blinked, bewildered, yet Blaster simply rolled with the blows. At the same time he muted his internal speakers. Palms held up in appeasement, he soothed, "Hey, mech, Rewind don't mean any harm. That's just how he copes. Everyone does what they can to deal with hard times. 'Sides"―Blaster flashed a cheeky grin―"he's my little walking thesaurus. It's his job to make sure that my head doesn't get any emptier than it already is. You're not gonna discriminate against nerds, are ya, Cliff?"

_Cope?_ the advisor repeated. Sure enough, when Kup ran an expert optic over the cassettes, he saw that they were trembling, worst of them all Steeljaw. That might explain why Blaster had yet to depart for the meeting.

Apparently Cliffjumper wasn't satisfied with that explanation. In a fluid motion the crimson minibot hopped off of his chair and stalked across the room, covering the distance between them. Each sharp jerk of his limbs sent up all sorts of warning signs. The entire room tracked his movements until he stood directly in front of the sofa, servos planted firmly on his hips. "I don't care," the frontliner snarled. An accusatory finger was jabbed at Rewind, who cowered on the ground at Blaster's pedes. "You order that little runt to mute it. I'm sick of listening to him spewing that garbage." Voice suddenly shooting up an octave, Cliffjumper mimicked in a nasally tone, "'_Did you know that ninety percent of all mechs that off themselves were annoyed to death by Rewind?_'"

An icy chill swept through the room. No one moved.

Slowly Blaster began to rise from his seat. Steeljaw hastily scrambled off of his master's lap and onto the sofa, tension in his frame coiling tight like Ramhorn and Eject beside him. Never once taking his optics off of Cliffjumper, he ordered, "Read the next statistic, Rewind."

Cliffjumper's fists clenched.

For an agonized moment Rewind sat between the much taller, much angrier mechs, his little hands trembling around the datapad he clung to like a lifelife. Acutely aware of all optics in the room on him, the black symbiote swallowed hard and stole a glance at the screen. "According to the article―"

Cliffjumper lunged.

With a feral cry Blaster threw himself bodily at the minibot and plowed him into the floor, deflecting the kick aimed at his cassette. Together the two rolled across the ground, fists smashing into each other's frames wherever they could find an opening. Uproar followed the assault as their mad scramble resulted in Cliffjumper momentarily coming out on top. There was no pause in the onslaught as he executed several vicious jabs to the Communication Expert's face. What the tinier Autobot lacked in size and brute strength he made up in pinpoint accuracy; one expert slash resulted in a sickening _pop_ as a curved fingertip caught Blaster by the optic, tearing it free. Sapphire Energon oozed out of the empty socket.

Before the minibot could land a second blow Blaster retaliated. Long, powerful backlegs were drawn up to his chest, catching Cliffjumper on the underside of his abdomen. With a powerful thrust he flung him a solid ten feet, sending him rolling toward the edge of the gathered crowd. There was no remorse in Blaster's bleeding face, no trace of his regular friendliness as he descended upon the supine 'bot with the wrath of the proverbial gods.

A pair of pale green arms dug into the officer's shoulder, tearing him away from his opponent. With a herculean heave Kup dragged the thrashing Blaster backward, venting hard from the exertion.

"Enough!" he bellowed. "Both of you, stand down!"

Slingshot wisely decided to break off from the crowd and haul the dented and scraped Cliffjumper to his feet, mirroring the hold that Kup had on Blaster. The injured Autobots leveled each other malevolent looks once they were both standing upright and no longer so winded.

"Don't…touch…them," hissed Blaster. Energon cascaded down his cheek from the dark hole where his optic had been. As his remaining optic narrowed he glared down at the seething minibot. "If you ever hurt them, I'll kill you."

It wasn't a threat. It was a promise.

"Brig. Now," Kup ordered tensely. With a jerk of his helm he summoned forward Hot Spot and Tracks, both of whom quickly took up Kup's former position and pulled Blaster's wrists behind his back. Neither he nor Cliffjumper protested to the treatment as they were shepherded out of the rec room, the heavy atmosphere hard on their backsides. Without hesitating the four shaken symbiotes trekked after them.

Once the group left Kup cast a stern glare to the rest of the bystanders. "All right, show's over," the veteran barked. "Either get back to what you were doing or get out. Bumper, go contact Grapple and let him know that we need his maintenance staff up here to clean up this mess."

The Special Ops mech jumped a little at being addressed but still managed a quick, "O-Of course, sir," before he darted out of the room.

As the crowd started to dissipate Kup activated his short-range comm. line. _Hot Rod, there are several 'bots heading your way. Put them in cells away from each other, on the opposite side of the brig if you have to. Once the staff meeting is over I'll have them dealt with._

Curiosity was evident in the young mech's voice, but for once he didn't argue. _Sure thing, Kup_.

_Thanks, lad_. Certain that the kid would keep to his word, he signed off. With a long, heartfelt sigh Kup scrubbed his faceplate with his hand.

Fragging cassettes. All of them.

Why couldn't this ever be easy?

* * *

><p>"Alright, Magnus." Skyfire hauled himself out from under the console and dusted off his armor. "The signal should be working this time. There shouldn't be any communication errors, so go ahead and start her up."<p>

"I appreciate the help, especially on such short notice," Ultra Magnus rumbled, his voice brimming with gratitude. Battle-scared hands ghosted over the panel and typed into the keyboard. Palest blue lit up along the seams as his palm pressed against the touchpad. As the augmented refractive transmitter booted up the commander turned his helm. A faint smile crinkled around his mouthplates as he stared at the two other occupants of the communication center. "You as well, Blurr. Though I'm sorry about the electrical bug. The medics here will be able to sand off the scorching and set you right soon enough."

The courier shrugged off the apology and beamed, readjusting his grip on the tool kit. Were his paintjob white with green and red accents instead of blue, he would have looked eerily like Wheeljack. "It's-quite-alright-sir-I-barely-felt-the-zap. I've-had-worse-shocks-than-that-like-the-time-Wind charger's-magnetic-field-was-on-the-fritz-and-the- reversed-polarity-charged-the-electrons-in-everyth ing-he-came-into-contact-with."

The massive jet made a rueful sound. "Yes, well, be careful in the future. Too much contact with raw electricity might do more harm than good on a 'bot's systems."

"I don't know," Chromia piped up. She had been leaning against the transmitter, wry smile on her face. "Maybe if we give him a few more good shocks it'll somehow make him even faster."

Skyfire visibly cringed at the thought, but Blurr took it in stride. "Hey-if-that-actually-worked-no-Decepticon-would-e ver-be-able-to-get-a-target-lock-on-me-again! We'd-win-the-war-hands-down!"

"If we all didn't go crazy first from listening to you talk," Ultra Magnus chortled. "Alright, you three, go get yourselves a cube and some rest. You earned it."

"You heard the boss." Amusement glittered in the femme's optics as she pushed off of the device and padded toward the door. She gave an airy toss of her streamline helm and glanced back over her shoulders. "Come on, Skyfire. You owe me a drink."

The scientist's frame slumped a little as he sighed. "That I do," he conceded, though he sounded not nearly as resigned as he was trying to pass himself off as. "Remind me to never agree to an arm wrestling contest with you again."

"That's what you get for not listening to Moonracer. Femme knew what she was talking about." The bold statement was followed by a playful punch to the white Autobot's side, causing Skyfire to flinch a little. "Size doesn't translate to brute strength. I'd have thought that a smart mech like you would have been able to figure that out."

The flyer gave another sigh, this time geared toward himself. Indeed, the arm he had used was now sore, his rotator cup equally so. "I'll keep that in mind."

"You too, motormouth, let's go." Chromia waved Blurr over.

Unbothered by the nickname, Blurr bid Ultra Magnus a good meeting and offered a quick bow before he bounded out the door, the heavy tool kit swinging wildly in his hands. "Wait-for-me-Skyfire!"

Only after the two had left did Chromia actually proceed to follow suit. At the exit she paused, lingering long enough to shoot her superior a small, hopeful smile devoid of the usual bravado and confidence she bore. "Say hi to Ironhide for me?"

A fond smile tugged at his lips. "Of course, my dear," Ultra Magnus promised. Looking relieved, the cobalt femme finally departed through the slide-open door, leaving just the vice commander alone in the cramped room.

Best get to work.

He turned and slid past the wide array of equipment, his footsteps masked by the whir and hum of the powerful machines. Ahead of him rose a small dais, a silver platform with a glass circle at the epicenter. Through the transparent breaks in the floor paneling Ultra Magnus could observe the complex network of powerlines transmitting electricity to the generator, bathing his armor and the room in a wash of ghostly blue light. Upon climbing up to the dais the glass panel underneath pulsed, scanning his spark signature and EM field.

A mechanical drone came from the speakers overhead: _Voice recognition requested_.

"Autobot Ultra Magnus," the blue-red mech announced, "commanding officer at Tyger Pax and leader of the Wreckers."

_Voice recognition accepted and identity confirmed. Now transmitting coordinates over a secure channel_.

Directly overhead the generator began to pulse more fervently, its glow strengthening as the atoms in the air were charged. Underfoot the glass dais surged, the prism-shaped magnifier etched into the panel working to refract, to bend the very light around him.

A blinding surge followed, and a moment later Ultra Magnus found himself several thousand miles way, sitting in the conference room in Iacon.

His baritone as smooth as ever, the commander intoned lightly, "We really do need to ask Hound to work on reformatting the hologram projector. I swear, the stupid thing blinds me every time I use it."

A soft laugh came from the chair directly across from him. With a warm glint in her optics Elita One teased, "I think that's age talking. You never hear any of us complain when we do these long-distance calls."

"Age my aft," Ultra Magnus grumbled. "_Ironhide's_ vorns older than me. Unlike that old rust bucket I still have some youth left."

"That 'old rust bucket' that you're so rudely insulting just happened to take down an entire regiment a metacycle ago," Ironhide huffed. He looked entirely too smug for his own good.

"Primus," Elita swore, and for a klik it looked as if the Femme Commander was fighting back the urge to bang her head on the table, "don't get him started."

"Gentlemen, ma'am," Perceptor interrupted, his tone placid yet insistent, "we really do need to get on with why we're assembled. Pleasantries should be saved for another time."

"Of course." Ultra Magnus snapped back into the role of authority, hands steepled together. His gaze skimmed over the conference room as he took in each of the commanders present.

At the head of the long table sat Optimus Prime, his deep expression benign and welcoming as always, if not a little shadowed by the circumstances that had summoned them here. Moving down the table clockwise was Jazz. For once there was no cheerful smile or wisecrack from the saboteur. Whatever emotion his visor hid was portrayed in the tightness of his frame, the thin line of his mouth, the rigid posture that replaced his normally laidback sprawl.

Wheeljack was the next 'bot seated beside Jazz. Indigo and yellow lit up the helm fins on either side, the complementary colors sliding together like oil on water―a portal to the inventor's emotions, for those who knew how to read the chromatic spectrum. The chair between him and the next officer―Perceptor―was empty. Perceptor himself looked composed as ever, intelligent features likewise moving about the room. Seated to the physicist's right was Elita.

On Ultra Magnus' side of the table the chair to his immediate left was also missing its occupant, something that didn't escape his notice. On the left of the empty seat sat Red Alert, looking stony-faced as ever. And now that the meeting was about to start Ironhide looked decidedly less cheerful than he had moments ago; not nearly as cool as the Security Director, but there was no denying the stormy look brewing on his face.

And last but not least, Smokescreen.

The acting Head Tactical Advisor looked as if he hadn't slept in days―a possibility, considering that he had traveled via ship non-stop for two orns from Tyger Pax to Iacon and then spent the next few days up until now assuming the duties of the mech whom he replaced. A hard tremble passed through the interloper's frame as he stared a hole into the table, his yellow chevron bowed, weighed down by the thoughts and feelings he was no doubt subjected to.

Something in his spark reached out for the young tactician whom he had gotten to know fairly well while they'd been stationed together. Angling his frame toward the doorwinger, Ultra Magnus called, "Smokescreen, it's good to see you again."

The reply sounded as if it was being dragged out of his vocalizer. Straightening a little in his seat, Smokescreen rasped out, "You too, sir." A harsh cough followed as he cleared his throat in a desperate effort to sound more composed. "Sorry that you couldn't actually be here."

He waved the comment aside. "That's life for you. Just got to make do with what you can."

What he said was true. Due to the reality of fighting a war on multiple fronts Ultra Magnus physically couldn't be at the meeting. It was thanks to the holographic emulators developed largely in part by Hound that he could still sit in on the discussion and participate. Given the severity of the issue, it was a good thing, too.

The conspicuous vacant seats continued to nag at the edge of his conscience, and he had to ask.

"Optimus," Ultra Magnus spoke up, "where are Blaster and Ratchet? Surely they should be here by now?"

The Matrix-bearer's optics took on a touch of sadness. "Ratchet has yet to report. As for Blaster, he is currently being detained for infighting."

Well, he certainly hadn't seen _that_ one coming.

"You're kidding," Ultra Magnus swore, shaking his helm in disbelief. "I may not have known him well myself, but I was under the distinct impression that he wasn't quarrelsome."

A dark shadow flickered across the Weapons Specialist's scarred face. "Just goes to show, ya think ya know someone, only for them to show ya just how wrong ya are."

Silence followed his ominous comment. Although Ultra Magnus couldn't pinpoint the source of his abrupt cynicism, he didn't miss the way more than one 'bot tensed. Someone's chair scraped against the floor. Near the end of the table Jazz's hand began to tremble; only sheer force of will stilled the saboteur's movements. Smokescreen had yet to glance up, though going by the twitch of his doorwings he was suppressing whatever reaction he was struggling with.

"W-Well"―Perceptor made an awkward noise at the back of his throat, clearly trying to break the ice―"we can't wait for Ratchet any longer. He'll simply have to be informed by one of us about what transpired here."

"Perceptor's right," Red Alert primly tacked on. "We're wasting time. The issue needs to be solved _now_."

When no objections were forthcoming Optimus gravely inclined his helm. "I must agree." Noticeably straightening, the red-blue mech calmly swept his gaze about the room, taking an astrosecond to meet all of his commanders' stares head-on. "As you are all aware, we are here to discuss what happened five orns ago when Second-in-Command Prowl tried to take his own life."

Acid churned in Ultra Magnus' tanks. No matter how many times he heard those words spoken he doubted he would ever get used to them. He found no comfort in that fact.

"As of this moment," rumbled Optimus, "Prowl is being kept in solitary confinement in the ICU, courtesy of the medbay staff. Two cycles ago he was reawakened from cryogenic stasis once he was deemed no longer in critical danger of dying from his injuries. What little I've been informed of by Ratchet is that, as predicted, he is resistant to treatment and disinclined to talk." In that second Ultra Magnus saw something slip in the professional nature of his report, the faintest hint of a waver: "Within less than a joor of being brought online Prowl made another attempt to take his own life."

A brittle choke came from Smokescreen before he swallowed down his reaction.

A pause. "Given the pressing urgency of the matter, I scheduled this conference a decacycle sooner than intended, to discuss our options in regards to Prowl's safety and the short and long-term status of Iacon," concluded the Prime, his expression forcing itself into some semblance of calm. The deep baritone of his vocalizer dropped an octave as he said, "I don't need to tell you that what has taken place is tragic. Nor does such a simple word give the situation the direness it deserves. Emotions are running high, and the question remains how we intend to respond to the matter. In that," Optimus quietly admitted, "I don't know."

Elita raised her hand. "It would be best to start from the beginning," the femme reasoned, flashing her mate a reassuring look. "We need to pool our information together―what we do and don't know."

"That's a bit difficult to do right now," came Red Alert's crisp reply. "There's only one mech who knows the answer to that and he's currently not talking. Perhaps we should instead focus on―"

"Actually, Red." Jazz's roughened accent cut across what was sure to be one of the Security Director's infamous monologues. The black-and-white shifted in his chair to speak directly to the CO, staunchly ignoring Red Alert's glare. "My team an' I found some intel we thought vital t' share. If ya don't mind, I'd like t' open th' discussion with our findings first, an'_ only_ proceed from there."

The challenge couldn't have been any more obvious.

Ironhide revved deeply.

For a long moment Optimus stared intently at Jazz, measuring the gravity of those words. To his credit Jazz didn't flinch beneath his searching gaze, as many weaker wills might have. Air whooshed out of his vents as the Prime at last sighed. Whether it was in resignation to the inevitable or the weight of many burdens pressing down on him, Ultra Magnus couldn't say. "Very well. Please proceed." He dipped his head in a clear indication that Jazz had the floor.

With a terse nod Jazz scooted his chair around to reface the entire command element. One hand busied with his subspace as the visored mech began: "Our initial objective was t' see if there was anything in Prowl's quarters that could have given us a clue as t' what…what happened." Several datapads were withdrawn and handed to Optimus and Wheeljack, to be passed around the room. "We took pictures of what we found: destruction of personal property, upcomin' mission statements, recent Autobot casualties, Energon production rates―it's all there."

As Ultra Magnus began to skim over the photos of the wreckage Perceptor glanced up from one of the confiscated reports. The hand not clutching the data slate reached up to fiddle with the eyepiece over his optic, a nervous, pensive habit of his. "…this is―that is, to say―where to even begin…?" Evidently at a loss for words, he turned back to Jazz, flustered. "Pardon my lack of professionalism on the matter, but _Primus_. I…I fail to comprehend what I'm looking at."

"What's there to understand?" snorted Ironhide, tossing one of the files across the table to Elita. "Seems pretty simple to me―he went off the deep end. Spent one night too many readin' these slaggin' things and it was too much for him to handle."

In the timespan Jazz's face contorted with rage Perceptor cut across the would-be confrontation: "While I hardly claim to well-versed in psychology, I understand the basic principles as to why Prowl, or any 'bot, for that matter, might have become depressed from this type of day-to-day occupational work. However," the scientist elaborated, "some of these documents belong to other departments." From the screen Perceptor read off, "Special Operations, Maintenance, Finances, Medical… My question is, why would he invest himself in other branches that aren't Tactics?"

Ultra Magnus gave a slight shrug. Discussing someone's sanity wasn't something that the commander found himself comfortable with doing, yet he was still obligated to give his input. "Maybe he was trying to bolster other divisions because he was failing in his own."

"Negative," Elita corrected him, shaking her head. "Before his team departed for Kaon Tactical was run as efficiently as ever. I would know because Firestar collaborated between the Femme Division and his over the last two weeks as part of the inner-department assimilation program we officers have been overseeing. Everything was always submitted on time."

Kliks went by before Wheeljack spoke up, his voice practically bleeding apprehension: "Jazz? What―What is this in his washracks…?" To clarify he flashed the image first toward the saboteur, then to the room at large.

When the photo was turned his way Ultra Magnus fought down a gag reflex.

Smokescreen had yet to look up.

"Prowl's been intentionally purgin'." Behind the layers of rigorous detachment Ultra Magnus saw Jazz tremble. It was taking everything the saboteur possessed to not break down. "It confirms what Ratch' said about th' frailty of his systems, that he's been on th' decline for a while now 'cause he wasn't gettin' th' fuel he needed." After a second of rummaging through his subspace he took out a slim tube of rancid green-blue Energon, corked at the top. "Took a sample right before we left. I _was_ gonna give this to our CMO, but seein' as he isn't here―catch, 'Jack."

He tossed it.

Wheeljack fumbled with catching the sallow, repugnant Energon. It bounced between his palms as if he were handling a hot coal before he finally managed to grasp it. He gave the capsule a look that bordered on disturbed before pocketing it. "Ugh. Yeah. That…That's vomit, alright."

Over the sharp intakes from Optimus, Elita, and Perceptor, Jazz reported, "We also confirmed that prior to th' first attempt, Prowl had been cuttin' himself. Often."

Exasperation welled up in the ebony mech's reply. "Oh, please. _That_ again? Look, we may have visual confirmation that he tried to slit himself up the first time, but how can ya possibly prove that he's―"

_Thunk_.

Embedded into the table in front of Ironhide was the dark blade, the metal still stained with Energon.

His arm still outstretched from the throw, Jazz shook long and hard, ventilations coming out in choppy breaths. "There's your proof, Ironhide," he snarled. "There's your fragging proof."

Nausea frothed violently, threatening to spill up from his throat onto the table. With a long shudder Ultra Magnus suppressed the too-strong reflex and straightened. His gaze returned to the Weapons Specialist, who was suddenly overcome by the gravity of what he was seeing. Incredulity, rage, and shock competed for dominance on his weathered features, no doubt burning straight into his core. Static shot out of his vocalizer as several of his gun components gave aborted whirs, as if he was struggling with the desire to act on impulse.

"Are you telling me that fragger has been using _my_ tungsten carbide to―to―" Too incoherent with fury to speak, Ironhide gesticulated wildly, his faceplates twisted. No one dare correct him about his claim to the weapon; practically everything in the armory either had belonged directly to him or had been supplied to the armory through his efforts. "…fine," he at last spat. "Fine. You were right. Doesn't change what he did."

"No," Optimus quickly intervened, silencing Jazz before the saboteur could try to fight, "it doesn't. However, this information will be valuable to the medical archives and undoubtedly steer us in the right direction."

"Sir." An adamant edge crept into Red Alert's voice, chilling the leader of the Wreckers to his spark. "In light of the new information presented to us, I have an appeal to make."

Optimus nodded and gave his Security Director his full attention. "And what would that be?"

With an upturned chin Red Alert said, "The events of the last decacycle, along with Jazz's findings, are conclusive: Prowl had been unstable for a while now, going back who knows how long. The recent actions of our Second only reaffirm this." Here the red-and-white mech lowered his head minutely, deepening the fatigued yet firm shadow around his optics. "I call into question whether or not a mech who is so mentally unstable should be allowed to continue his position."

"Meaning?" Jazz's tone was pitched so soft that it was frightening.

Again Red Alert steadied himself, taking a moment to gather his thoughts―_Or stall_, Ultra Magnus added. When he spoke again there was no shortage of _accusation_. "Meaning that Prowl is a danger to himself and to the rest of the Autobots. Can we trust him to do his job in the future without another circumstance like this arising? What if next time it's on a mission, where there are_ lives _at stake!" he exclaimed, and to the red-and-blue commander's surprise his voice shot up an octave. Only for a second did he pause to collect himself then resume full-throttle, now openly agitated: "There's no guarantee that he'll recover, and even if he does he still might relapse. No diagnosis on Ratchet's part can change that. I suggest that in order to prepare for the long-term future we demote Prowl from Head Tactical Advisor and Second-in-Command and give those positions to those next in line."

A deep shudder ran through Smokescreen's frame, but otherwise he said nothing.

Ironhide rumbled an agreement while Wheeljack and Perceptor swapped meaningful looks. Elita's optic ridges shot up high on her face.

It was Jazz who spoke.

He rose from his chair with a tight scowl marring his mouthplates. "Optimus." Although the address went to the Prime Jazz kept his visor locked on Red Alert. Anger that he refused to conceal any longer glinted behind the glass, razor sharp. "If ya promote me t' Second-in-Command I will resign. I _refuse_ t' accept a position that is currently filled. There's no need for a new SIC when _we already_ _have_ _one_."

Taken aback by the ferocity of the demand, Ultra Magnus gaped.

"Jazz, please sit." It was more of a request than a command. After a pause of supercharged silence the saboteur acquiesced, sliding painfully slow into his seat. Optimus acknowledged Red Alert with a polite nod. "While I appreciate your investment into the security of Iacon and its inhabitants, there is no need to play devil's advocate. I agree that there is no certainty that Prowl will recover. However, there is also no certainty that he won't_ not_ recover. It's too early to start making such drastic changes. Rest assured that the duties of Second-in-Command are being handled by myself and Jazz, and are well managed."

"Ya just reminded me of another point I wanted t' make, actually." Palms braced on the tabletop as Jazz leaned forward. "Instead of tellin' me how t' do my job why don't ya do yours? Do you have th' security logs from the previous week?"

Torn between insulted and mulish, Red Alert settled on glaring. "What do you need them for?"

"My team has reason t' suspect that someone broke into Prowl's quarters while he was in Kaon," Jazz explained, this time to the room at large. "I'd like t' have a copy of th' footage t' see if anyone was recorded."

Red Alert shifted. "That…will be problem."

"Why is that?" This time Ultra Magnus was able to put aside his shock long enough to ask.

Humiliation briefly flickered over the Security Director's face, followed by annoyance. "When Ravage hacked into Teletraan and shut down the power generators he also scrambled my security logs." He bowed his head and glared at the table, probably trying to burn a hole through it. "I have yet to uncover all of the lost footage and separate the corrupted files. Some of it will be impossible to recover. It'll take some time before I can supply you with them."

"What―" Elita's question was cut off as the doors to the conference room slid open.

"I'm sorry I'm late," First Aid apologized as he backed inside and proceeded to reset the lock. "There was an incident."

"It's quite alright―" The rest of Optimus' sentence died off as the Protectobot fully turned around to face the room.

"First Aid…" Horror clouded Wheeljack's voice. "What happened to your face?"

Where once was the junior medic' face mask was a series of brutal scrapes and gouges around his mouth and cheek arches. Droplets of Energon clung to the shredded fringes of the wounds, indicating the Energon lines had been resealed and stopped leaking. The left horn on his frame was crushed. Cracks fragmented the glass on his visor, spiderwebbing its surface. Below his neck the red armor was scuffed and dented, as if he'd come to the meeting directly from a skirmish.

Shuffling the medical reports in his hands, First Aid ducked his head, self-conscious under the optics of so many officers. As the red-and-white medic moved toward Ratchet's usual seat, he murmured, "Prowl…made a second escape attempt. Ratchet is currently sedating him and running several more scans, in addition to overseeing the cleanup."

Out of the corner of his optic Ultra Magnus saw Smokescreen snap his head up.

A delicate hand touched the corner of the damaged faceplate. "Prowl faked a full-frame seizure, and while we were distracted he took a laser scalpel to my face." A soft frown graced his faceplates, accompanied by a shiver. "My mask took the brunt of the attack, so I sustained no serious damage…"

…_but without it Prowl would have done worse._

It was painfully obvious what the Protectobot had left out.

Concern welled up in his spark for the kid. Unable to help himself, Ultra Magnus asked, "Are you sure you're up for this? I don't want you to overtax yourself."

If anything First Aid looked acutely embarrassed by the concern. Shrinking shyly away from Wheeljack's hand on his shoulder, he answered, "Yes, I-I'll be fine. Thank you."

Like the Autobot on his left Optimus leaned forward, his gaze openly honest and searching for answers. To what questions Ultra Magnus could only guess at. "What have you to report?"

Momentarily First Aid looked dazed by the address, and a fleeting smile touched his lips. The inexperience showed in the way the medic swallowed as he inserted a datachip into one of the outlets along the table. It was bittersweet for Ultra Magnus, to sadly recall the innocence of such a young age, only to see it scarred and traumatized by the cataclysms of war.

As the drive finished loading the projector at the center of the table lit up. A second later a full three-dimensional rendering of the tactician's profile flickered over the table. With a brief shake of his head First Aid reached out and motioned toward the downsized holographic image. "Most if not all of the superficial damage has been healed. The only part we couldn't repair with much success was the protoform." Lightly tapping the 3D diagram caused it to flicker. Beneath the scaled-down dermal plating the under portion of the frame was momentarily illuminated bright pink against blue, to highlight the indicated region. "As you are all aware, unlike external armor the protoform is the foundation for a Cybertronian's body and houses most of our major systems―circulatory, the neural net, and the spark. While our self-repair systems can heal most integumentary damage on the armor and small amounts of damage to the protoform, prolonged injury…" Another tap, and the gridded outline of Prowl's wrist was brought into focus. "…creates permanent scaring."

Dark blue optics widened as Smokescreen wordlessly eyed the diagram. His back-mounted sensor panels quivered.

"His tanks have shrunk from a lack of refueling, and some of his armor's density has been lost from his body cannibalizing the internals," the junior medic continued. It was uncanny how much the red-and-white mech sounded like his teacher in those calm, immersed tones, like he was channeling his inner-Ratchet. A complicated gesture with his servo caused the pixels to shift to a cross-section of the catabolic system. "Once we get proper nutrients into him, we can hopefully get Prowl to cooperate long enough to consider a plan of treatment."

Ultra Magnus raised a hand. "And what, exactly, does 'treatment' entail?"

Stress and accumulated frustration showed as the pacifist shuttered his optics. "We don't know yet." Armor stiffened as he made a slicing motion through the air, and the projection hovering over the table vanished. To Prime he said, "We'd like to request several transfers from other Autobot outposts to bring in specialists who might be able to help us. Rung, if I'm not mistaken, is currently stationed in Simfur."

"I'll see to the transfers immediately. Though I must admit, I'm surprised," Optimus declared. "Are you really so doubting of your own abilities to see this through?" Honest surprise colored his voice as the Prime patiently gazed at the medic.

Again, First Aid dipped his helm. "Ratchet and I aren't psychologists. While my mentor has trained both me and Swoop well, neither of us has had any experience with trauma counseling. War rarely necessitates psychological profiling and treatment when…when the physical injuries take precedence." He cringed inwardly, and to Ultra Magnus' optic he looked absolutely _drenched_ with guilt. "It is an oversight that we intend to fix."

"And in the meanwhile?" Wheeljack asked, a hint of incredulity showing. "I mean, I don't want to just _leave_ him there while we sit on our afts and do nothing."

The young Protectobot sighed, shoulder blades slumping a little. "There's little we _can_ do while Prowl continues to fight us―literally―every step of the way. I mean, we finally opted to remove the electric stasis cuffs because we thought it might calm him down, but we―"

"_You did what!_"

Everyone, even Optimus, jumped at the screech.

Doorwings flared and jaw clamped, Smokescreen leveled a heated glare toward the Protectobot who cowered under the rigid stance. Heavy ventilations hissed out from between his denta. Legs trembling, he kicked back his chair and dug his fingers into the table, scraping its metallic surface. "Are you telling me that you were using the stasis cuffs designed for _interrogations_ on my brother?"

"We needed a way to suppress him!" First Aid defended himself, though to Ultra Magnus' audios, it sounded like the medic hated himself for saying it.

Ironhide leveled Smokescreen a cold look. A digit was pointed directly at First Aid as he yelled back, "Look what your 'brother' did to him! He's a danger to himself and to others, Smokescreen! He needs to be restrained!"

The tactician's optics glinted like chips of ice, the familial resemblance between him and Prowl so strong that Ultra Magnus nearly looked away. "Can you blame him? He's running scared right now!"

"Oh?" Humorless, hollow laughter echoed around the room as he sneered. "Did Prowl tell ya that? 'Cause the last I heard, he wasn't talking to anyone."

"_Enough_."

The firm command was enough to bring the others to their senses. It was only then that it came to Ultra Magnus' attention that he had leapt to his feet, like the other officers in the room. One by one they settled down so as to not appear so out of control of the situation.

Heedless of the order Smokescreen whipped around, shoving blindly away from the table and stalking toward the door.

"Smokescreen." Warning and concern laced the Prime's tone. "Where are you going?"

Glancing over his shoulder, the blue Praxian snapped, "To see my brother!" before he stormed out of the room.

The now-accustomed to silence stretched between the Autobots, both mockery and reminder to the indecision and tension beneath the surface, seeping in like a poison they were all powerless to stop.

"First Aid," Jazz pressed. It was that absolute lack of emotion that made Ultra Magnus bristle. "Those stasis cuffs belong t' Special Ops. My department."

The Protectobot cringed. "I know."

"I never authorized them t' th' medbay."

For a moment First Aid closed his optics, looking as if he were begging some listening god to give him strength. From experience Ultra Magnus knew that Primus had very selective hearing and was more deaf than not. "We circumvented the usual procedure and went to the next Autobot who possessed the authority. We asked him instead."

"_Who?_"

A long, anxious breath rattled through his frame like a dead wind. "Mirage." When Jazz continued to say nothing the medic elaborated in higher, more panicky tones than before, "Given your involvement in the issue, R-Ratchet suggested we ask him. You would have been too emotionally compromised to allow us to use them."

Beyond the visor emotions raged, a blackness soured and infected by betrayal.

"I think that we're done here." Thankfully Optimus intervened. "Like First Aid said, there isn't much more we can do at the moment until we have the resources and Prowl's cooperation. Until then we'll move forward one orn at a time, to the best of our abilities. Go in peace."

Red Alert was predictably the first to get up. His aura radiated disappointment and frustration as he strode purposefully out of the room. Perceptor stood next, looking outstandingly uncomfortable from the amplified feelings of his comrades. With a courteous nod he filed out of the conference, unsubspacing a datapad as he did so. Ultra Magnus watched as Elita lent down next to Optimus, whispering a hurried conversation into his ear finials before rubbing her faceplate against his. Optimus murmured something too faint to hear as he affectionately nuzzled back. Too soon the Femme Commander was turning on her heel and following after Perceptor and Red Alert.

Jazz said nothing, only frigidly ignored Ironhide and First Aid as he left.

The Weapons Specialist shot the tungsten carbide blade a dark look before he grasped it by the pommel and ripped it out of the table. As he rounded to the other side the black mech thrust the dagger into First Aid's hands with low grunt, "Here," before he departed. The Protectobot gawked at it, and Wheeljack hastily brought him up to speed as they padded out of the room.

Which left only the Prime and Ultra Magnus.

"I'm sorry, old friend," Ultra Magnus murmured. He tried to place as much depth and sincerity in the words as he could, cursing the limited mobility of the hologram. "I wish there was more I could do to help."

Optimus Prime bowed his head. "So do I."

With a final sigh Ultra Magnus disengaged the projector, and like dying stars beneath the dawn, disappeared.


	7. Soliloquy

**Warnings**: Swearing, talks about suicide.

**Disclaimer**: Fine, I get it! It's not mine. Stop reminding meeeeee. :(

**Rating**: M

**Summary**: Sometimes those we try to save are the ones we hurt the most.

**Author's Note**: I'll specify when there's a flashback chapter and when it takes place. Otherwise expect the story to progress in hour or day-long increments.

The latest round of thanks goes to **Exactlywhat**, **FractaUmbra**, **renegadewriter8**, **Shizuka Taiyou**, **Wildwhisker**, **steelcrash**, **Sideslip**, **OfDust**, **Fliara48**, **Starfire201**, **warperchick**, **Fiana9**, and especially **I Give Headaches To Aspirin **(awesome alias, by the way), who was kind enough to provide me several quotes I can use for this story! You guys are so amazing! Seriously, what did I do to deserve ya'll?

* * *

><p>Chapter Seven: <strong>Soliloquy<strong>

"_You'll take the high road,  
>and I'll take the low road,<br>and I'll be in Scotland afore you_."

– _Loch Lomond_, 1841; writer unknown

* * *

><p><strong><em>Autobot Headquarters<em>**  
><strong><em>Iacon<em>**  
><strong><em>Approximately 39 joors (2 days) after the first failed suicide attempt<em>**

_The medbay was dark when Smokescreen crept in._

_Warily the interloper paused, letting his chevroned helm swing back and forth. Turquoise optics scanned the medical wing, taking inventory of its occupants. Apart from the hushed chirps and squeaks of the maintenance drones scuttling about, the ward was empty._

_Good._

_Without making a sound Smokescreen entered the room all the way, quick to relock the sliding doors behind him with a well-oiled click. Doorwings arched high on his back as the tactician took a cautious step forward._

_Through the large window on the far side of the room fluorescent light lit up the medbay. One of Cybertron's moons could be seen through the glass as it made its nightly orbit. Its massive form continued to cast pale bleached light over the floor and tables, catching the edge of equipment neatly stacked against the wall. Laser scalpels and drills glinted ominously under the wash of moonlight, like instruments of death anticipating when they'd next be put to service._

_It was enough to make him take pause and remember all of the consequences he would face, should he be caught._

_In recent vorns Ratchet had placed a strict no-trespassing policy on the medbay, forbidding 'bots from coming in if no medics were on duty. It was a rule that had come into effect once the CMO had reached his limit with his supplies' sudden habit of mysteriously disappearing in the dead of night. While the new order marginally reduced the theft, it did little to deter nocturnal visitors like the twins, whose regard for rules could be described as contemptuous at best._

At least there aren't any security cameras. _Something that Smokescreen found himself grateful for. The decision to not have surveillance equipment directly in the medbay had been a controversial move, one which Ratchet and Red Alert had gone toe-to-toe over. In the end Optimus had ruled in the medic's favor, agreeing that patients' privacy outweighed the need for security._

_It had the added effect of making his infiltration easier._

_And yet, even as he began to move toward the back, he couldn't help but wish that someone would stop him. Stop him before he was forced to confront all of his nightmares._

_At last he haulted in front of the CR chamber. An icy silver glow calmly pulsed beneath the glass, mimicking the ebb and flow of the vitals chart on the monitor off to the side. Unseeing optics stared at the lid of the capsule. Wires and plastic tubes were still hooked to the neck, one set monitoring spark activity while the other pumped Energon into the frame._

_A shaking hand reached out and lightly palmed the glass. When he tried to swallow the gears in his throat stuck._

_"Hello, brother."_

_Ventilation speed increased as Smokescreen studied all of the fresh weld marks on his body, the lightning-shaped crack on his chevron. The one wrist that bore no armor was completely mangled, disfigured and scarring from all of the cuts that the medics had attempted to reseal during surgery._

_With a sharp exhale Smokescreen stilled his vents, struggling for some semblance of control. In the end he only managed to stop hyperventilating. There was nothing he could do to fight off the quicksand chasm at the center of his chest that was pulling him under._

_"You'll be happy to hear that I put my poor stealth ship through the ringer getting back here. Pretty sure that I broke everything from traffic laws to laws of physics," he joked, albeit weakly. He wrung his hands together almost painfully as he shifted his gaze from left to right, desperately trying to not look at the comatose mech frozen beneath. "I can just picture your face now―lips pursed and optics narrowed in that way you always do when someone manages to piss you off. Actually, that's what you look on a good day, so never mind. Doesn't count."_

_Tremors lapsed through his hands Smokescreen delved into his subspace, distracting himself with his pursuit. A heartbeat later he fished out the object of his search and held up the tiny datapad in front of the glass._

_"Hey, I picked up a small souvenir while off-shift. You know that author you like? Well, I remember you mentioning a few decacycles ago that he had written a sequel to that book you thought was so good, so while strolling through Pax I managed to find a copy." For emphasis the blue tactician shook the file in his hand. "When I went to purchase it I found a rather handsome amount of credits suddenly to my name, from you. Gotta say, I was surprised they were in my account—I mean, you've been saving those since what, your first day on the job as an Enforcer? But I figured you'd put them there because you were trying to help me pay off a gambling debt or something." As he spoke the shaking in his limbs doubled. This time he couldn't stop it. "Thing is, I told you before I transferred out that I had a clean bill."_

_When no reply was forthcoming Smokescreen continued. An acidic burn began to creep up through his throat, stinging everything it touched. Knowing that it was useless to push off the emotions he let the pain sweep through him, waiting for the inevitable eruption. Any minute now and the dam was going to burst._

_"I would've gotten it autographed for you too, but apparently the author died in a 'con raid just a few cycles before I was stationed there," rasped the interloper, his voice strained, brittle, so close to hitting its breaking point. Optics a shade or two darker than his sibling's narrowed while his grip on the datapad tightened, to the point of nearly denting the alloy._

_"Heh. You know…maybe if you'd gone through with the suicide attempt, you could have met up with him in the Matrix and asked him whether or not the main character gets the femme at the end."_

_Struck by the gravity of his own words, the floodgates surged open._

_"Primus damn it, Prowl! Damn it to the Pits! You heartless, socially-handicapped, fragging_ bastard! _Do you have any idea what you've done? _Do you? _I'm gone for less than two months and in that short time you manage to ruin everything!" His psychotic scream boomed off the walls, startling the maintenance drones and sending them scurrying under one of the tables. A heavy fist slammed into the monitor and sent it wheeling several feet off, stretching the cables between it and the cryogenic chamber until the lines were taut. Seething, Smokescreen leveled his brother a harsh glare that bordered on caustic. Another incoherent cry left his vocalizer as the doorwinged mech clawed desperately, almost hysterically, at the glass directly over Prowl's head._

_Pressurized gas hissed out of the crack, creating a soft vapor of H2O, carbon, and neon. The gas leak caught his attention, enough to cause him to refrain from his attack. Instead, the tactician settled on clenching his fists tight at his sides._

_He wished that his kin was awake, so he could at least _see_ the pain buried in the contortions of his face._

_"Do you have any idea what I've been through? A messenger knocks on my door in the middle of the night and brings me to the conference room, where I'm informed by my_ superiors_ that my brother tried to kill himself! Do you see something wrong with that picture, because I sure as the Pit do!" he spat. Somewhere in the back of his processor a little voice reminded him that yelling and screaming were as far from covert as a 'bot could get, and yet he didn't care. Raw emotion was muscling aside everything else, leaving nothing but open wounds that had acid poured in them with no reprieve. Stealth be damned. "I thought you were dead! I was told that you were going to die! Do you have any idea," Smokescreen snarled, "what I've been through the last few days? Not only did I believe that I was going to lose my only family, I realized that the mech I trusted with my life I barely knew anymore!"_

_Convulsions now freely wreaked havoc on his frame, causing him to literally fly apart at the seams. Stress from the last few days, coupled with a lack of recharge, were finally taking their toll. As suddenly as the backlash came it left, taking the energy with it. With a choked sound the tactician pressed his cheek against the glass and collapsed atop it, upper torso supported by the structure._

_A wrenching keen filled the dark, a lamentation for the dead and everything he'd ever lost._

_For several minutes the interloper lay there in the wreck of his own emotions. No effort was made to regain control; it was pointless now. Finally his breathing slowed, enough to allow him to prop himself up on his elbows. Carefully―so not as to not cause any more damage―Smokescreen slid to the floor with his back against the ice-cold container. Sobs gave way to shallow gasps before he managed to muster enough breath to speak. When he did, it came out as little more than a whisper._

_"You know I'm not good at this, Prowl."_

_Drawing his knees up to his chestplate, he wrapped his arms around his legs and stared listlessly at nothing._

_"Out of the two of us you've always been the stronger one. Me? I'm just a 'bot who couldn't get his act together. A former psychologist-turned-Enforcer who got his license revoked because he couldn't say no to a little high grade and the thrill of the credit count rising with each bet."_

_It was of the few admissions that normally held no guilt for him. Gambling was his release, more potent than any drug, an addiction that drew him like metal to a magnet. Long ago he had conceded to his crumbling weakness and accepted the trade-off. No holds barred. No remorse._

_Now the words tasted bitter. Saturated him with guilt._

_Smokescreen slowly uncurled a hand and held it out, palm up. Weary optics traced the contours, mapping out the dermal plating. Without glancing up he exclaimed, "This is the part where I'm supposed to pat you on the back and go, 'There, there. Everything's gonna be okay.' But slag it, Prowl! Nothing's gonna be okay! I don't know what to do!_ You're _the problem-solver, not me! You're the one with the Enforcer reputation, the battle computer, and the shiny position second only to the Prime!"_

_There was no jealousy in the statement. Just pointed observation dampened with sadness, deeper than he had ever cared to admit._

_Unfocused optics flickered upward, penetrating the moonlight and shadows of the medbay as if he was seeing something that wasn't there. A memory from the distant past. A lifetime's worth of regrets. All centered around the mech behind him who had come so close to death._

_His vocalizer dropped a register as Smokescreen murmured, "The only thing I ever had was you, and damn it if I wasn't the proudest older brother alive. 'Yep, that's my Prowl, the big-shot. He's so young and he's already done so much with his life.' You made me feel so happy; you inspired me to go back to the Academy and retake the exams so I could get my certification in Psychology, even_ _if_ _I still lost my license." With a long sigh the interloper whispered, "You mean the world to me. And I'm sorry I never took the chance to tell you before now."_

_Black humor colored his tone as he barked out a harsh laugh. Halfway through his voice cracked. "I mean, when I was in the Simfurite brigs with that debt, you bailed me and delivered that wonderful lil' pep talk you always save just for me: 'It's illogical to allow yourself to waste such potential, Smokescreen.' Then ya hauled me by my backstruts and marched me outta the brig—which, by the way, was the fragging longest walk of shame you ever made me take. And boy, did I need it. "_

_Heavy nostalgia brimmed up from his chest, causing the black hole where his spark was to only collapse on itself faster._

_"Remember when you helped get me a desk job in Security Response after that? Even used some of your backed up vacation time to help with my rehab—sorry that it failed so miserably, by the way. I never could say no to a shiny hax piece." Again, the guilt that came with confessing to the one weakness that consumed him. It was the one he and Prowl had argued over more than any other, the one Smokescreen had adamantly defended, insisted, had created a rift over whereupon the brothers would part ways with ill-tempered growls. No doubt Prowl would have arched an optic ridge to hear Smokescreen finally admit that he was wrong. What little fondness the mental image of his smug brother conjured was quickly silenced by all-consuming grief._

_"And then," Smokescreen rasped, "when we both decided to join up with the Autobot cause, you not only worked your way up to SIC, but promoted me to your SIC in Tactical. One of the best slaggin' days of my life was you pointing at the office across from yours with my designation engraved in the door. _Smokescreen. _Like I was worthy or something."_

_He didn't remember standing._

_By now the pressure had eased enough to stem the gas leak, the crack from his earlier barrage frozen over by the subzero temperature of the cryogenic chamber._

_Trembling hands reached out, hesitating midair for a klik, before at last wrapping around the rounded glass. With a choked sob he leaned into the capsule and embraced it with his full weight. Outstretched arms enfolded as much of the chamber's circumference as he could. Navy blue metal pressed against the cool material until he was nearly fused to it, barely a space big enough for an air molecule separating him from the glass._

_It was as close as he could come to hugging his brother._

_Like Prowl, Smokescreen had a tight, expert reign over his emotions, able to hide his feelings when needed to. Grief, melancholy, _fear _were not normally ones he liked to showcase to the world. But now, without the pressure or worry of someone overseeing, he cried freely._

_Each moist vent fogged the glass as he nuzzled it in a desperate gesture of affection. His optics never left Prowl's as he implored brokenly, "Why'd you do it, Prowl? Why'd you throw it all away? Hate to give you a taste of your own medicine, but it's illogical to allow yourself to waste such potential. So why didn't you call me?" His voice shot up an octave, accusation and melancholy colliding like two thunderheads, warring against the other. "Why didn't you knock on my door and ask for help?_ Why? _Even in Pax I was just a comm. call away. I would've been here in a sparkbeat if you had just _trusted _me enough to turn to me for help."_

_In the wake of his outburst a sudden realization came to mind. All of his anger evaporated, leaving a single, chilling thought. Over the soft hum of life support Smokescreen whispered, "Perhaps it's my fault that you no longer trust me."_

_It made the pain sting all the worse._

_With a snort of self-disgust he burrowed deeper into the chamber, wishing that he could hold him, scream at him, beg him for forgiveness. The confluence of emotions almost too much bear, he started shaking again in spite of himself. Deep in his spark he vowed to do everything he could to help him, even if the spiteful little voice in the back of his head insisted, _It will never be enough._  
><em>

_In a scratchy huff Smokescreen said, "You were the one who had all the answers, the success, and one of the biggest sparks I'd ever seen—even if you hid it behind all those walls you were so fond of. And yet you_ gave everything _to keep proving yourself because you were never good enough in your own optics. And what do I have? Some shitty little novel and a Pit of a lotta paperwork. Worst part is, I don't have anything to give you this time around, brother._ Nothing._"_

_His next question was pitched so quiet that it was almost swallowed up by the yawning darkness:_

_"Do I even have you anymore?"_

_The frame didn't respond._

_Heartfelt sobs wracked his frame as he doubled over and keened, an animal cry of complete and utter abandonment. Armor creaked as he wrapped his arms around the CR chamber, causing the hinges in his joints to protest as they were stretched to their limit. Throughout his mourning and wails a string of static broke through, nearly lost under the tidal wave:_

_"I'm sorry. I am so, so sorry. I wish I had been a better brother. Maybe then you wouldn't have tried to kill yourself."_

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>: Two quick addendum to this chapter:

1.) This story _is_ about Prowl. However, anyone who has been involved with suicide attempts can attest to the fact that there are limitless facets. Everyone has a part to play in this, not just the bloke who tried to end it. _Everyone_. So it's important to show and expand upon those involvements. Believe-you-me, they'll affect how the story progresses.

2.) We'll return to Prowl's POV next chapter! :)


End file.
